PICCADILLY  PUZZLE. 


BY 


FERGUS  W.  HU  MI, 

A&qb&r  or  “ Mystery  of  a Hansom  Gab,”  &g» 


THE  L1BRAHY 
Of  BE 

hwvf^RITY  6F  {iUSOfS 


NEW  YORK  : 


HURST  £ CO.,  PUBLISHERS, 


mmcArm 


TO 

CHARLES  WILLEBY,  Em 


795688 


I 


CONTENTS. 

— ' » — 

mta, 

L — A Foggy  Ni«k*  « * # ; 

IL — The  News  of  the  Day  • • • 

HL— Dotoeb— Detective  . . . . 

IV. — The  St.  Joke’s  Wood  Establishment 
V. — The  Piccadilly  Rooms  . . 

VI. — A Successful  Experiment*  . . 

VIL — A Literary  Aspirant  . * » « 

FILL — A Juyekilb  Detectiye  , . . 

IX. — The  Language  of  Lots  * # . 

X. — The  Missing  Line  . . • » 

XL— Another  Complicatio*  , . 

XIL— A Family  History  .... 
XIII.— Myles  Desmond  finds  Friends  . . 

XIY. — My  Lady’s  Husband  ... 
XV,— A Startling  Discovery  * » . 

XVI. — More  Reflections  .... 
XVII. — The  Prodigal’s  Return  . * , 

XVIII. — We  at  Myles  Desmond  Thought  . 
XIX. — -What  Do  week  Discovered  . . . 

XX. — The  End  op  it  All  . . . 

Eeifcoau® 


PASS 

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U7 


1 HE  PICCADILLY  PUZZLE 

- ♦ 

CHAPTER  L 

A FOGGY  NIGHT. 

At  two  o’clock  in  the  morning  during  the  month  of  August 
sounds  of  music  could  be  heard  proceeding  from  a brilliantly 
lighted  house  in  Park  Lane,  where  a ball  was  being  given 
by  the  Countess  of  Kerstoke.  True,  the  season  was  long 
since  over,  and  though  the  greater  part  of  London  Society 
had  migrated  swallow-like  to  the  South  of  Europe  in  search 
of  warm  weather,  still  there  were  enough  people  in  town 
to  justify  the  ball  being  given,  and  a number  of  celebrities 
were  present 

Outside  it  was  dull  and  chill  with  a thick  yellow  fog  per- 
vading the  atmosphere,  but  within  the  great  ball-room  it 
was  like  fairy-land  with  the  brilliant  light  of  the  lamps,  the 
profusion  of  bright  flowers,  and  the  gay  dresses  worn  by 
the  ladies.  The  orchestra  hidden  behind  a gorgeous  screen 
of  tropical  plants  was  playing  the  latest  waltz,  “ A Friend 
of  Mine,"  and  the  sigh  and  sob  of  the  melody  as  it  stole 
softly  through  the  room  seemed  to  inspire  the  dancers  with 
a voluptuous  languor  as  they  glided  over  the  polished  floor 
The  soft  frou-frou  of  women's  dresses  mingled  with  the 
light  laughter  of  young  girls  and  the  whispered  confidences 
of  their  partners,  while  over  all  dominated  the  haunting 
melody  with  its  weird  modulations  and  suggestions  of 
sensuous  passion. 

Near  the  door  of  the  ball-room  a young  man  of  about 
thirty  years  of  age  was  leaning  against  the  wall  in  a lazy 
attitude,  idly  watching  the  dancers  swinging  past  him ; but 
judging  from  the  preoccupied  expression  of  his  face  his 
thoughts  were  evidentlyTar  away.  He  was  tall,  dark-haired, 
with  a short  cut  well-trimmed  beard,  piercing  dark  eyes,  a 
compressed  mouth,  and  judging  from  bis  swarthy 

J 


* 


THE  FIOCAHILLY  PUZZLE. 


complexion  together  with  a certain  crisp  curl  in  his  hair  he 
evidently  had  some  negro  blood  in  his  veins.  Suddenly  he' 
was  roused  from  his  meditations  by  a touch  on  his  shoulder, 
and  on  glancing  up  saw  before  him  a stout  elderly  gentle- 
man with  white  hair,  a niddy  face,  and  rather  a Silenus 
cast  of  countenance. 

The  one  was  Spenser  Ellersby,  only  son  of  a wealthy 
West  Indian  planter,  and  the  other  Horace  Marton,  a well- 
known  society  man  generally  called  The  Town-crier,  from  the 
fact  that  he  knew  all  the  current  scandals  and  retailed  them 
with  elaborate  embellishments  to  his  numerous  circle  of 
friends. 

“ Hey ! Ellersby,  my  boy,”  said  The  Town-crier,  on  the 
alert  to  acquire  fresh  information,  “ have  you  come  back 
once  more  to  England,  home  and  beauty — hey  ? been  all 
over  the  world  I suppose,  hey  ? — goingUo  publish  a book  of 
travels — hey  ? ” 

“Not  me,”  replied  Ellersby  in  the  slow,  languid  manner 
habitual  to  him,  “everyone  who  goes  half-a-dozen  miles 
now-a-days  publishes  a book  of  travels  under  some  fantastic 
title.  I prefer  to  be  renowned  for  not  having  done  so.” 

“ Broke  no  new  ground — hey  ? 

“No,”  indifferently.  “I  haven’t  the  instincts  of  Colum- 
bus so  the  old  ground  was  good  enough  for  me.  I’ve  done 
Africa  in  a superficial  manner,  called  on  our  American 
cousins,  passed  the  same  compliment  to  our  Australian  ditto, 
n fact  done  the  usual  thing  with  the  usual  result” 

“ Hey  ! what’s  that  ? ” 

“A  sense  of  being  bored — I agree  with  Voltaire  to  a 
certain  extent,  * this  is  the  best  of  all  possible  worlds,’  but 
one  does  get  and  little  tired  of  it — however  I have  satisfied 
your  curiosity,  now  return  the  compliment.  I’ve  been  away 
from  England  for  two  years  so  know  nothing  of  life  in  town 
—come  unfold — tell  me  all — scandals,  deaths,  marriages, 
divorces,  in  fact  all  the  gossip  of  the  hour.” 

This  was  an  occupation  after  The  Town-crier’s  own  heart, 
so  he  launched  out  into  a long  description  of  folly  and 
fashion  varied  by  sermons  and  scandal,  which  being  spiced 
with  a little  maliciousness  proved  quite  an  amusing  discourse. 
Ellersby  listened  in  silence  with  a quiet  smile  on  his  lips, 
every  now  and  then  giving  vent  to  an  ejaculation  as  he  heard 
some  special  morsel  of  news. 

“ You  ought  to  write  your  memoirs,  Marton,”  he  said 


4 foggy  mem. 


ditty,  *they  would  be  as  gossiping  as  Pepys,  m scandalous 
as  De  Grammont,  and  as  amusing  a3  either,  but  go  on — any 
thing  more  ? Who  are  the  new  beauties  ? ” 

“ Hey  ! oh  ! one  was  here  to-night,  Lady  Baiscombe.” 

u What  I old  Baiscombe  married,”  said  Ellersby  in  a sur 
prised  tone.  “ I thought  he  loved  no  one  but  himself — 
so  ! — and  who  is  my  lady  ? ” 

“ That’s  what  everyone  wants  to  know,”  replied  Marton 
eagerly,  “ he  picked  her  up  down  in  the  country  somewhere, 
but  she’s  got  no  pedigree — no  money,  no  talents— nothing 
but  personal  beauty.” 

M Which  is  worth  all  the  rest  put  together,  to  a woman,” 
interrupted  Ellersby  cynically.  “ What  is  she  like  ? ” 

The  Town-crier  reeled  off  an  auctioneer-like  description 
at  once. 

“ Tall,  fair,  blue  eyes,  beautiful  complexion,  magnificent 
figure,  and  the  devil’s  own  temper.” 

“ Nice  set  of  qualifications,  especially  the  latter,”  mur- 
mured Ellersby.  “ Baiscombe  fond  of  her  ? ” 

44  Hey  ! oh  yes — madly  ! won't  let  her  out  of  his  sight, 
but  he  had  to  to-night  as  he's  off  down  to  his  place  in  Berk- 
shire on  business,  tried  to  make  her  ladyship  come  to  but 
she  wouldn't  because  of  this  dance — good  Lord — fancy  a 
dance  at  this  time  of  the  year  J— but  Kerstoke’s  wife  was 
always  slightly  cracked ! ” 

“ Does  Lady  Baiscombe  reciprocate  hex  husband’s  adora- 
tion ? ” 

Marton  raised  his  eyebrows,  rubbed  his  hands  and  leered 
significantly. 

44  Not  exactly  ! hey  ! ” he  replied  chuckling.  44  Calliston 
is  first  favourite  there.” 

“ Eh  ! — the  deuce — I thought  he  was  in  love  with  old 
Balscombe’s  ward,  Miss  Penfoid.” 

“ So  he  is — but  he  makes  love  to  the  wife  just  to  keep 
his  hand  in — I wouldn’t  be  surprised  if  it  ended  in  the 
Divorce  Court” 

“ Well  you  are  generally  right  in  your  surmises,”  retorted 
Ellersby,  “but  what  would  Miss  Penfold  say  to  that?” 

“ Hey  ! oh,  she’d  be  glad,”  replied  Marton,  “ bless  you  she 
cares  more  for  Myles  Desmond’s  little  finger  than  she  does 
for  the  whole  body  of  Calliston.” 

44  Oh  f know  Myles,”  said  Ellersby  promply,  u a rattling 
good  fellow,  was  with  him  at  Cambridge  but  we  somehow 

«• 


% m&  PICCADILLY  F0ZOI 

» # 

never  hit  It  off— trying  to  make  a fortune  by  bis  pen  1 

hear,*5 

“ Yes ! and  hasn’t  made  a penny  yet,  |so  he  acts  as 
secretary  to  his  cousin  Lord  Calliston — he's  next  hdr  to  the 
title  you  know,  hey*I  * 

“ Much  chance  he’ll  have  of  it,"  replied  Ellersby,  con- 
temptuously. “ Calliston'*  sure  to  marry  and  have  heirs, 
unless  he  kills  himself  in  the  meantime  with  drink — but,  to 
revert  to  our  former  conversation — the  Balscombe  manage 
seems  slightly  mixed.” 

“ Hey  ! rather — it  stands  this  way,"  explained  Mart  on, 
eagerly;  “ Balscombe's  jealous  of  his  wife  on  account  of 
Calliston— Lady  B.  is  jealous  of  Calliston  on  account  of 
Miss  Penfold,  and  that  young  lady  does  not  care  two  straws 
for  the  whole  lot  of  them  in  comparison  to  Myles 
Desmond." 

“ Sounds  like  the  second  act  of  a French  play,"  mur- 
mured Ellersby,  yawning.  “ Well,  when  I see  Lady  Bals- 
combe, I'll  give  you  my  opinion  of  her  looks ; meantime, 
you  must  be  dry  after  all  that  talking,  so  come  and  have  a 
drink." 

“ Where  are  you  stopping  ? * asked  Marton,  as  they  went 

to  the  supper-room. 

“ Guelph  Hotel,  Jermyn  Street,"  said  Ellersby,  M only 
for  a few  days  till  I get  my  rooms  fixed  up ; I've  brought 
such  a lot  of  things  home  that  my  chambers  look  Bke  an 
old  curiosity  shop.  What  are  you  having  f 9 

“ Champagne,"  replied  Marton.  u Oh,  I say,  dear  boy," 
seeing  his  companion  with  a small  glass  full  of  brandy, 
u that  looks  bad  at  this  hour  I Hey — you  haven't- — " 

M No,  I haven't,"  interrupted  Ellersbv  impatiently,  Cl  I'm 
only  taking  this  to-night  because  I don't  fed  up  to  the 
mark." 

Marton  said  no  more,  but  after  parting  with  his  com- 
panion went  back  to  the  ball-room,  and  meeting  a friend, 
confided  to  him  that  poor  Ellersby  was  going  to  the  dogs 
through  drink. 

u Brandy  neat,  dear  boy,  hey  ! 9 said  the  old  reprobate. 
14  Bad  habits  these  young  fellows  pick  up  abroad,  bey  I look 
used  up,  by  Jove!  Gal  in  it,  dear  boy,  hey  I— oh, 

shocking  1 " 

So  The  Town-crier  evidently  did  not  intend  to  give  the 
returned  wanderer  a good  character. 


A FOGGY  HIGHT. 


S 


Ellersby  was  now  tired  of  the  ball,  so  bade  good  night  to 
his  hostess,  who  was  a queer,  thin  little  woman,  wearing  a 
wig,  a low-cut  dress,  and  many  jewels,  giving  one  the 
general  impression  that  she  was  mostly  bones  and  diamonds. 

After  taking  leave  of  this  bizarre  figure  Ellersby  put  on 
his  coat  and  went  outside  into  the  street,  where  he  stood 
for  a few  moments,  undecided  whether  to  take  a cab  to  his 
hotel  or  to  walk.  The  fog  was  very  thick,  and  the  gas-lamps 
shone  through  it  like  dull  yellow  stars,  while  the  chill 
breezes  of  the  night  seemed  to  penetrate  the  body  of  the 
young  man,  accustomed  as  he  had  been  of  late  to  tropical 
climates. 

In  spite  of  the  apparent  discomforts  offered  by  a walk  at 
such  a time,  Ellersby  determined  to  risk  it,  thinking  it 
would  give  him  a certain  amount  of  amusement,  akin  some- 
what to  the  unravelling  of  a puzzle,  to  find  his  way  through 
the  fog  to  Jermyn  Street.  Smiling  at  the  oddity  of  the  idea 
of  finding  pleasure  in  a cold  walk  on  a foggy  night,  he 
lighted  a cigar  and,  buttoning  up  his  coat,  took  his  way 
down  Park  Lane  towards  Piccadilly. 

There  is  a strange  feeling  in  the  complete  isolation  one 
experiences  in  fog-land-— the  thick  yellow  mist  hiding  every- 
thing under  its  jealous  veil  until  the  pedestrian  finds  him- 
self adrift  as  it  were  on  a lonely  sea,  and  though  on  every 
side  he  is  lenvironed  by  millions  of  human  beings,  yet  the 
fog  creates  for  the  moment  a solitude  as  in  those  enchanted 
cities  of  the  Arabian  Nights. 

Ellersby  managed  to  find  his  way  to  Piccadilly,  and  was 
soon  swinging  along  the  pavement  at  a good  round 
pace.  Every  now  and  then  ragged  figures  with  sinister 
faces  would  loom  suddenly  out  of  the  fog  on  the  watch  for 
unwary  wanderers,  but  the  nomadic  life  of  Ellersby  having 
wonderfully  sharpened  his  faculties,  he  was  always  on  his 
guard  against  the  evil  advances  of  these  night-birds.  Occa- 
sionally he  could  hear  a cab  drive  slowly  past,  the  driver 
cautiously  steering  his  horse  down  the  familiar  street,  which 
as  if  by  magic  had  suddenly  assumed  an  unreal  appearance, 
transforming  Piccadilly  into  a vague  immensity  resembling 
the  Steppes  of  Russia. 

With  his  ears  alert  for  every  sound,  and  his  eyes  peering 
anxiously  into  the  veil  of  grey  mist,  Ellersby  hurried  along, 
managed  to  cross  the  street,  and,  by  some  miracle  of 
dexterity  which  he  placed  at  once  to  the  credit  of  instinct 


THE  PICCADILLY  PUZZLE. 


tamed  down  St.  James*  Street,  and  it  was  here  his  firs* 
mishap  occurred,  for  just  as  he  rounded  the  corner  he  came 
against  a young  man  hastening  in  the  opposite  direction  af 
a rapid  pace. 

“I  beg  your' pardon/  said  the  stranger  quickly,  “ but  the 
fog  is  so  dense  I could  not  see— excuse  me.” 

And  he  was  about  to  hurry  away,  when  Ellersby,  recog- 
nising the  voice,  stopped  him. 

“ Wait  a moment,  Desmond,”  he  said,  gaily,  “and  give  an 
old  friend  a word.* 

Desmond  seemed  annoyed  at  being  recognised,  and  look- 
ing sharply  at  the  face  of  the  other  gave  vent  to  an  ejacu- 
lation of  surprise,  which,  however,  had  not  a very  delighted 
ring  in  it. 

“ Ellersby,  by  Jove  I*  he  said  in  a hesitating  manner,  “ I 
thought  you  were  in  Persia  or  in  Patagonia.  Who  the  deuce 
would  have  expected  to  see  you  in  Piccadilly  on  such  a 
devil  of  a night  ? " 

“ Fve  been  to  a ball,”  explained  Ellersby,  “and  thought 
Fd  walk  back  to  my  hotel  just  to  renew  my  acquaintance 
with  London  fogs.  It  was  a mad  freak,  but  amusing.  Come 
to  my  hotel  and  have  a nightcap.*  „ 

“Thanks,  awfully/  said  Desmond,  hurriedly,  “but  J 
can’t.  I’m— I’m  in  a hurry.  Where  are  you  stopping?  99 

“Guelph  Hotel,  Jermyn  Street" 

“ Eh  1 ” said  Desmond,  with  a start  u Jermyn  Street- 
all  right,  look  you  up  to-morrow." 

“Wait  a moment/  observed  Ellersby,  detaining  him. 
“ Tell  me,  where  is  Calliston  ? I want  to  see  him." 

“Not  much  chance,’’  replied  Desmond,  shaking  his  head, 
“he’s — gone  off  to-night  down  to  Shoreham — yachting, 
you  know.  Wants  to  go  to  the  Azores ; well,  see  you  to- 
morrow ; good-night— I’m  in  a deuce  of  a hurry.’’ 

He  spoke  rapidly,  with  nervous  agitation  quite  at  variance 
with  his  usual  demeanour,  as  Ellersby  knew,  and  as  he  went 
off  quickly  and  was  swallowed  up  by  the  fog,  the  latter  re- 
sumed his  walk  with  a quiet  laugh. 

“A  woman,  I bet/  he  said  to  himself  as  he  made  his 
way  cautiously  along.  “Fancy  Venus  on  such  a discourage 
ing  night  as  this — the  rosy  mists  enveloping  the  goddess  are 
charming,  but  a London  fog — ah,  bah  ! " 

He  stood  on  the  pavement,  wondering  how  he  could 
vtrike  Jermyn  Street,  and  was  about  to  attempt  to  cross  on 


A FOGriff  BIOHT* 


? 

the  dt ance  of  his  luck  guiding  him,  when  suddenly  the  t ® 
form  of  a policeman  loomed  out  of  the  fog  and  dashed 
bright  light  of  a lantern  on  him, 

u Ah,  just  in  time,  policeman,”  said  Eilersby  in  a relief, ;d 
tone.  “ I've  got  slightly  astray  in  this  fog,  so  you 
guide  me  to  the  Guelph  Hotel.” 

“Just  across  the  street,  sir/7  replied  the  policeman,  touch- 
ing his  helmet,  and  he  stepped  off  the  pavement,  foilotmd 
by  Eilersby. 

They  soon  got  into  Jennyn  Street,  and  went  along  fJse 
left-hand  side  towards  the  hoteL  Though  the  fog  was  still 
thick,  Eilersby  in  the  vanity  of  his  heart  thought  he  could 
now  find  the  wav  for  himself.  He  gave  the  policeman 
faalf-a-crown,  and  going  along  a few  yards  went  up  what  he 
supposed  were  the  steps  of  the  hotel.  The  policeman 
stood  in  the  same  place,  ready  to  render  his  services  as  a 
guide,  should  he  be  required,  when  suddenly  he  was  startled 
by  a cry  from  Eilersby. 

The  young  man  had  gone  up  the  wrong  steps,  and  was 
standing  on  the  top  when  the  policeman  hurried  up,  while 
at  his  feet  was  a bundle  of  what  looked  like  clothes. 

14 1 s$y,  policeman,”  said  Eilersby  in  an  agitated  tone, 
H here  is  a woman — I believe  she’s  dead.” 

“Dead  drunk,  more  like,  sir,s>  replied  the  policeman, 
sceptically,  ascending  the  steps. 

44  No,”  said  Eilersby,  “I  have  shaken  her  and  she  will 
not  waken.  Her  face  is  quite  cold — just  look  1 ” 

The  policeman,  somewhat  startled  out  of  his  professional 
phlegm,  turned  the  light  down  on  the  figure  of  the  woman, 
which  was  lying  in  the  doorway.  It  was  that  of  a female 
with  a fair  face  and  golden  hair,  dressed  in  a long  seal-skin 
jacket,  and  a silk  dress,  with  a fashionably  shaped  hat  on 
her  head.  Her  weil-gloved  hands  were  tightly  clenched, 
and  her  eyes,  wide  open,  were*  staring  straight  up  at  the 
horrified  discoverers.  There  not  seem  to  be  any  wound 
or  blood  about,  but  her  face  was  swollen,  and  appeared  to  be 
of  a dark  purple  colour,  with  tongue  slightly  protruding 
between  the  teeth.  It  was  not  by  any  means  a pleasant 
sight,  and  both  men  felt  a sens***on  of  horror  as  they  looked 
at  the  body, 

41  She’s  dead,  sure  enough-  sir,*  said  the  policeman  at 
length,  and  blew  a whistle  this  call  there  was  an 

answer,  and  won  another ; gvide  his  appeaamnca 


t 


THE  PICCADILLY  PUZZL3 


H She  looks  as  if  she  vhad  been  strangled,”  said  EBersby, 
who  was  much  upset  by  the  discovery,  "her  ferae  is  so 
purple  and  her  tongue  protruding.” 

The  first  policeman  bent  down  and  looked  at  the  neck  of 
the  corpse,  but  could  see  no  marks  of  violence,  so  he  shook 
his  head. 

“ Don’t  know,  sir,”  he  answered.  u It  looks  a queer  sort 
of  case.  We’ll  take  the  body  to  the  hospital,  and  see  what 
the  doctors  say.” 

In  the  meantime  the  other  policeman  had  gone  for  aid, 
and  in  a few  minutes  two  more  made  their  appearance  with 
a stretcher,  upon  which  the  body  was  placed  and  taken  to 
the  nearest  hospital. 

In  accordance  with  a request  made  by  the  policeman, 
Ellersby  gave  his  card,  so  that  he  could  be  called  on  to 
appear  at  the  inquest,  and  then  went  to  the  Guelph  Hotel, 
which  was  only  a short  distance  up  the  street 

When  he  arrived  he  had  a glass  of  brandy  neat,  for  he 
felt  quite  sick  with  the  horrible  sight  he  had  witnessed,  and 
all  through  the  night  his  sleep  was  broken  by  visions  of  the 
beautiful  face  distorted  with  agony. 

In  truth  it  was  a tragical  termination  to  a night’s 
pleasure. 


CHAPTER  IL 

THE  NEWS  OF  THE  BAT. 

11  Hash  ” was  a weekly  paper,  owned  by,  one  American, 
edited  by  another,  and  conducted  on  strictly  American 
principles.  It  mostly  consisted  of  sharp,  incisive  para- 
graphs, strongly  epigrammatic  in  their  phraseology,  and 
attention  was  drawn  to  these  by  startling  sensational 
headings.  The  staff  of  this  journal  comprised  two  men 
besides  the  editor,  and  there  was  a good  deal  of  paste  and 
scissors  work  in  connection  with  the  production  of  a number 
As  to  the  name  Hash , it  requires  some  explanation. 

The  word  “ hash  ” is  used  in  America  to  designate  a 
certain  dish  much  in  favour  with  lodging-house  keepers  in 
the  land  of  the  free,  wherein  all  the  unconsidered  trifles  left 
over  from  the  six  dinners  of  the  week  are  made  into  a 
savoury  stew  to  serve  for  the  seventh,  and,  being  highly 
spiced  and  deftly  concocted,  is  apt  to  deceive  an  inex* 


m&  MEWS  DM  *8E  BAY. 


* 

perienced  novice  k lodging-home  cookery,  inasmuch  as  he 
deems  it  a dish  formed  of  new  ingredients,  a mistaken 
view,  as  can  be  seen  from  die  foregoing  explanation. 

The  proprietor  of  Hash,  therefore,  aid  in  & literary  sense 
that  which  is  often  done  in  a culinary  one,  for,  by  stealing 
items  of  news  from  other  sources  and  making  them  into 
spicy  little  paragraphs,  he  succeeded  in  producing  a very 
readable  paper,  much  in  favour  with  Londoners. 

If  there  was  any  new  scandal,  or  shocking  occurrence, 
Hash  was  sure  to  have  a bright  and  witty  description  of  it, 
and  consequently  sold  capitally.  It  was  in  this  paper  that 
the  following  items  of  interest  were  told  to  the  public  a week 
after  the  discovery  of  the  body  in  Jermyn  Street : 

“ High  Jinks  in  High  Life. 

“ They're  at  it  again.  When  will  the  British  aristocracy 
learn  that  they  must  not  covet  their  neighbour's  wife? 
Another  elopement  has  taken  place,  which  will,  doubtless, 
end  as  usual  in  the  Divorce  Court.  Same  old  game. 

“ Last  Monday  Lady  B— — left  her  home  and  went  off 

with  Lord  C an  intimate  friend  of  the  lady's  husband 

It  generally  is  the  intimate  friend  who  is  on  the  racket. 

“ The  guilty  couple  have  sailed  in  a yacht  for  foreign 
climes,  and  the  indignant  husband,  Sir  R B Is  in- 

quiring for  their  whereabouts.  If  he  calls  at  our  office,  we 
will  lend  him  articles  of  warfare,  and  do  our  best  to  put  him 
on  the  track.  There  is  nothing  new  or  original  about  this 
comedy — they  all  do  it  It's  getting  a trifle  monotonous, 
and  we  should  suggest  something  new  in  the  elopement 
line — a mother-in-law,  for  instance.  Good  old  mother-in- 
law! 

“ When  the  pursuing  husband  comes  up  with  the  flying 
lovers,  we  will  give  a report  of  the  inquest.” 

In  the  same  number  of  Hash  a longer  article  appeared, 
headed : 

The  Piccadilly  Puzzle. 

“ Cain  was  an  amateur  in  the  art  of  murder,  but  then  he 
had  no  one  to  copy  from,  so  his  clumsiness  must  be  excused 
The  crime  of  Jermyn  Street,  however,  is  an  admirable 
example  how  civilization  can  improve  the  difficult  art  of 
taking  life  in  a skilful  manner.  The  whole  affair  is  quite 
dramatic,  so  we  will  divide  this  tragedy  into  acts,  and  place 
it  before  our  readers. 


m ^ tm  PICCADILLY  FUZZL3, 

Ad  /—Scene,  JermynStreet;  foggy  morning;  half  pasl 
two. 

Enter  Spencer  Ellersby  on  his  way  to  hotel  from  ball 
In  dense  fog  he  mistakes  his  hotel — goes  up  wrong  steps  ; 
there  finds  dead  body  of  woman.  Utters  a cry  of  horror- 
cue  for  policeman,  who  enters ; views  body  by  lantern  light 
—sealskin  jacket,  silk  dress*  fair  hair,  beautiful  face— sounds 
whistle ; enter  other  policemen,  who  exeunt  with  body  in 
one  direction,  while  Spencer  Ellersby  goes  off  in  the  other* 

Act  II. — Scene,  hospital  Present,  inspector,  policeman, 
and  doctor. 

Doctor  examines  body — finds  no  evidence  of  violence, 
except  slight  discoloured  mark  on  one  side  of  neck — opinion 
of  inspector  that  something,  chain  probably,  has  been 
wrenched  off  by  assassin — -is  also  of  opinion  that  death 
could  not  have  been  thus  caused.  Doctor  says  death  i3 
caused  by  blood-poisoning— evidence  being,  swollen  con- 
dition of  body,  protruding  tongue,  discolouration  of  skin- 
thinks  it  must  be  poison — makes  minute  examination — finds 
on  neck  slight  scratch  just  on  jugular  vein,  greatly  inflamed 
—is  of  opinion  that  assassin  has  wounded  victim  in  neck 
with  poisoned  dagger  or  knife.  Inspector  takes  description 
of  body  for  purpose  of  having  hand-bills  printed  to  distribute 
about  city— exeunt  omnes  with  body  to  Morgue. 

Act  III . is  so  long  that  we  will  drop  the  dramatic  style 
and  tell  it  in  our  own  fashion.  Our  special  reporter  was  at 
the  inquest,  and  the  following  atw  the  result  of  his  in- 
quiries : 

The  body  of  the  deceased  was  examined  by  the  jury,  and 
the  following  articles  of  clothing  w*  pot  la  evidence : 

i.  Sealskin  jacket 

a.  Silk  dress.  Gloves. 

3.  Under  linen  (not  marked). 

4.  Hat  (brown  and  blue  velvet  intertwined,  clasped  with 

silver  crescent). 

Evidence  of  Spencer  Ellersby : 

Independent  gentleman.  Been  travelling  for  some  years, 
and  only  returned  to  England  a month  ago.  Was  at 
Countess  of  Kerstoke's  ball  on  Monday  last  — left  at  a few 
minutes  past  two  o’clock — walked  along  Piccadilly ; met  a 
friend  in  St  James’s  Street — spoke  to  him  for  a few  moments. 
When  he  left  him,  met  policeman,  who  guided  him  through 
tag  to  Jenny n Street— left  policeman  and  went  up  steps, 


tm  NEWS  Of  THE  BAX 


n 


thinking  ft  was  Guelph  Hotel  — found  there  body  of 
deceased — called  policeman,  and  body  was  taken  to  hospital. 
Does  not  know  deceased  in  any  way. 

Evidence  of  Constable  Batter : 

Corroboration  of  evidence  of  former  witness. 

Evidence  of  Dr.  Fanton  : 

Examined  body  of  deceased — well  nourished.  Deceased 
had  evidently  been  in  good  health.  Should  say  she  had 
been  dead  at  time  of  examination  about  three  hours. 
Death  appeared  to  have  been  caused  by  paralysis.  The 
blood  was  disorganised,  therefore  he  judged  deceased  had 
been  poisoned,  and  disorganisation  was  caused  by  action  of 
virus.  The  veins  were  congested — lungs  full  of  blood,  con- 
gealed and  of  a dark  colour.  The  face  was  swollen,  and  of 
a dark  purple  appearance — tongue  also  protruded.  Small 
wound  on  neck  over  jugular  vein,  in  itself  not  sufficient  to 
cause  death.  Thought  from  all  appearances  that  the  assassin 
had  inflicted  wound  with  poisoned  dagger  or  knife,  hence  ap- 
pearance of  body.  If  a powerful  poison,  it  would  act  in  a 
very  short  time,  as  the  blood  in  jugular  vein  went  straight  to 
the  heart.  Poison  would  act  in  about  ten  minutes  — if  de- 
ceased had  been  excited,  in  even  a shorter  time. 

This  closed  the  evidence. 

Inspector  said  all  inquiries  had  been  made  to  find  name 
of  deceased,  but  no  clue  had  as  yet  been  obtained.  The 
case  had  been  placed  in  the  hands  of  Detective  Dowke* 
who  was  present. 

Coroner  summed  up. 

W ornan  had  been  found  dead-proved  by  evidence  of 
Policeman  Batter  and  Mr.  Eilersby* 

Death  had  been  caused  by  poison-proved  by  evidence 

of  Dr.  Fanton. 

Poison  administered  through  wound  in  neck  by  means 
©f  dagger,  knife,  or  lancet  No  evidence  to  show  who  had 
inflicted  wound. 

Jury  would  please  return  verdict  in  accordance  with 

evidence. 

The  jury  consulted  for  & few  minutes  and  returned 
verdict  That  deceased  had  come  to  her  death  by 
violence  by  the  hand  of  some  person  or  persons  unknown. 

This  is  the  whole  statement  of  the  case  which  we  have 
entitled  The  Piccadilly  Puzzle,  and  we  wil  now  make  our 
comments  thereon. 


I 


m fHB  PICCADILLY  YtJZZLB. 

In  the  first  place  from  all  appearances  the  deceased  was 
evidently  a lady  and  not  a street  walker.  We  know  that 
many  street  walkers  are  ladies  who  have  fallen  into  that 
state  of  degradation,  but  this  unknown  woman  was  not  one 
of  them  in  our  opinion,  for  as  far  as  we  can  learn  she  bore 
no  marks  of  dissipation,  which  such  a life  would  inevitably 
cause.  Again,  if  she  had  been  an  habitu£  of  the  streets  she 
would  have  been  known  to  the  police,  but  none  of  them 
were  able  to  identify  her.  True,  her  face  had  been 
swollen  and  disfigured  by  the  action  of  the  poison  so  that 
in  any  case  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  recognize  the 
features,  still  her  dress  and  figure  might  lead  to  identifi- 
cation, but  no  result  had  been  arrived  at  The  deceased, 
therefore,  to  all  appearances  was  a lady.  Jermyn  Street 
is  not  a particularly  busy  thoroughfare  at  any  time,  and 
after  eleven  o'clock  it  is  comparatively  deserted,  therefore  the 
assassin  must  have  decoyed  his  victim  there  to  accomplish 
his  crime  in  safety.  He  might  have  had  an  appointment 
to  meet  her,  and  while  talking  to  her  in  the  doorway,  had 
he  embraced  her,  might  doubtless  have  wounded  her  with 
the  poisonous  weapon.  She  would  only  feel  a pin-prick, 
and  then  he  could  watch  the  poison  do  its  work.  She 
would  become  confused  and  then  giddy,  entertaining  no 
idea  that  she  carried  death  in  her  veins.  Then  passing 
into  a comatose  state  she  would  sink  to  the  ground  in  a 
dying  condition.  Her  companion  had  then  probably  left  her, 
satisfied  that  she  could  not  call  out  There  seems  to  have 
been  a great  deal  of  devilish  ingenuity  about  the  committal 
of  the  crime,  and  this  brings  us  to  the  consideration  as  to 
the  position  in  life  held  by  the  assassin. 

We  hold  that  he  is  a gentleman,  or  at  least  an 
educated  man,  possibly  a medical  man,  a medical  student, 
or  a dilettante  in  toxicology.  A common  assassin  would 
have  decoyed  his  victim  into  a house  and  murdered  her 
in  a more  brutal  manner,  by  cutting  her  throat  or  battering 
her  head  with  a poker,  but  this  strange  assassin,  secure  in 
the  possession  of  a weapon  more  deadly,  engages  his 
unhappy  victim  in  confidential  talk,  and  whilst  embracing 
her  causes  her  death  in  a sure  manner.  It  is  a Judas-iike 
crime,  the  kiss  of  friendship  and  the  heart  of  treachery, 
therefore  we  say  the  criminal  who  possesses  these  refined  and 
fiendish  instincts  must  be  an  educated  man,  and  also  one 
who  must  have  no  little  knowledge  of  poisons  to  employ 


THE  KEWS  Of  TEE  BAT. 


11 


2fee  subtle  drug  he  did  The  nature  of  the  poison  cannot 
be  discovered,  as  the  simple  scratch  corrupted  the  blood 
and  there  are  no  local  signs  to  tell  what  kind  was  employed. 
As  to  the  motive  of  the  crime,  it  may  have  been  love,  it 
may  have  been  jealousy,  perhaps  robbery ; as  no  money 
or  jewellery  were  found  on  the  body,  and  there  was  a mark 
on  the  neck  as  though  a chain  had  been  roughly  wrenched 
off.  What  we  have  set  forth  is  mere  conjecture,  for  the 
assassin  may  be  a woman,  but  we  think  this  improbable.  No 
woman  would  have  the  nerve  to  commit  such  a crime  in 
the  open  street — true  the  assassin  was  favoured  by  the  fog 
which  hid  his  or  her  crime  behind  an  impenetrable  veil, 
but  still  the  risk  was  enormous. 

But  be  the  assassin  man  or  woman  there  is  no  doubt  we 
have  in  our|midst  a human  fiend  who,  possessed  of  a deadly 
weapon,  namely,  a poisoned  dagger,  can  commit  crimes 
with  impunity  ? A slight  scratch  given  in  a certain  portion 
of  the  body  and  the  victim  is  doomed.  Who  is  to  point 
out  the  assassin,  unless  he  or  she  is  actually  seen  commit- 
ting the  crime.  We  have  not  yet  heard  the  end  of  the 
Piccadilly  Puzzle,  but  it  will  take  all  the  acumen  and 
ingenuity  of  the  London  detective  to  trace  this  secret 
assassin,  and  our  only  dread  is  lest  some  other  victim  may 
fall  before  his  or  her  terrible  weapon. 

But  though  the  assassin  of  this  unknown  woman  may 
escape  the  consequences  of  this  crime,  sooner  or  later  he 
will  thirst  again  for  blood,  and  the  second  time  he  may  not 
be  so  fortunate.  Let  him  remember 

Tho’  the  mills  of  God  grind  sk m'kfa 

They  grind  exceeding  small. 


CHAPTER  III 

BOWKER- — DETECT  I VR, 

Mr.  Dowrer  was  a long  lean  man  of  a drab  colour.  His 
hair  was  thin,  of  a neutral  tint,  his  eyes  a watery  blue,  and 
his  somewhat  large  mouth  drawn  down  at  the  corners 
betokened  a lachrymose  nature.  He  wore  greyish  clothes 
always  a little  threadbare,  and  large  thick  - soled  boots 
chosen  rather  for  utility  than  beauty.  His  head^gear 
consisted  of  a sad-coloured  soft  hat  pulled  well  over  his 
eyes,  from  under  which  his  scanty  hair  hung  in  a depressing 


14 


*H £ nOOADZLLT 


manner.  In  fact  he  had  a somewhat  sketchy  appearance, 
as  if  he  had  been  outlined  and  waited  to  be  filled  up  with 
colour,  but  this  stage  of  development  which  would  have 
turned  him  into  a thing  of  beauty,  was  never  arrived  at, 
and  his  general  appearance  was  dismal  in  the  extreme. 
He  wore  a beard,  that  is  several  tufts  ©f  straggly  hair 
were  planted  in' patches  over  his  face  but  did  not  seem  to 
flourish.  He  never  smiled  and  frequently  sighed,  so  that 
his  manners  as  well  as  his  appearance  were  not  calculated 
.to  inculcate  cheerful  thoughts. 

But  notwithstanding  this  unprepossessing  exterior,  there 
was  no  cleverer  man  in  London,  and  the  most  dexterous 
criminal  would  rather  have  had  any  other  detective  after 
him  than  this  apparently  unpromising  thief-catcher.  The 
outward  resemblance  of  a man  is  not  invariably  the  index 
of  his  mind,  and  the  Puritan  physiognomy  of  Mr.  Dowker 
was  a very  serviceable  mask  to  the  acuteness  and  brilliancy 
of  his  intellect  Consequently,  when  the  Piccadilly  Puzzle 
case  promised  to  be  such  a difficult  one  to  unravel,  it  was 
placed  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Dowker  and  the  whole  affair 
left  entirely  to  him.  Dowker  was  pleased  at  this  tribute 
to  his  cleverness,  and  sighed  in  an  approving  manner  as  he 
rapidly  reviewed  all  the  evidence  which  had  come  under 
the  eyes  of  the  police. 

In  the  first  place  it  would  be  necessary  to  discover 
the  name  of  the  deceased,  and  then  by  finding  out  the 
banner  of  her  life,  the  motive  of  the  crime  might  be 
discovered,  pointing  to  the  criminal  The  clothing  was  not 
parked  in  any  way,  but  on  examining  the  hat,  Dowker 
found  from  a ticket  on  the  inside  that  it  had  been  pur- 
chased at  the  shop  of  Madame  R§ne  in  Regent  Street ; 
so,  wrapping  up  the  hat  in  paper,  he  betook  himself  to  tha 
establishment  of  that  lady,  as  the  first  step  in  the  chain 
of  evidence  which  he  hoped  to  complete  by  the  discovery 
of  the  assassin. 

Madame  Rene’s  establishment  was  one  of  the  smartest  in 
London,  and  was  well-known  to  the  feminine  world,  who 
were  accustomed  to  pay  the  exorbitant  sums  demanded 
there  for  goods  which  could  have  been  bought  much 
cheaper  elsewhere,  but  then  they  would  not  have  been 
stamped  with  Macjame  Rene’s  approval,  and  that  omission 
was  to  declare  that  the  article  was  unfashionable.  Madame 
Rene’s  trade-mark  being  thus  indispensable,  ladies  never 


Bowraa— BETsonm 


u 


venteed  to  go  anywhere  else  if  they  could  possibly  manage 
it,  and  Madame  R&ne  flourished  greatly. 

Dowker  entered  the  shop  and  asked  to  see  Madame 
R£ne,  to  whose  presence  he  was  conducted  at  once,  for  the 
detective  was  well-known  there,  having  been  frequently  em- 
ployed by  Madame  in  missions  of  a delicate  nature,  princi- 
pally concerning  ladies  of  high  rank  and  diamonds. 

Madame  herself  was  short  and  stout,  with  a thoroughly 
English  face,  and  indeed,  she  had  been  bom  within  the 
sound  of  Bow  Bells,  but  took  her  French  name  for  trade 
purposes.  Her  voic©  was  sharp  and  shr/ll,  and  her  black 
eyes  bold  and  piercing~a  thorough  woman  of  business* 
who  knew  the  value  of  money  and  time,  so  wasted  neither. 

“ Well,  Mr.  Dowker,**  said  Madame  when  the  detective 
had  taken  his  seat  in  her  private  office  and  closed  the  door, 
“ what  is  the  matter  now  ? 1 was  just  going  to  send  far 
you.” 

u What  about  ? " asked  Dowker  with  a sigh,  “ more 
trouble  ? f> 

•‘Yes — Lady  Balscombe’s  run  away  with  Lord  Calliston, 
t nd  she  owes  me  a lot  of  money,  so  I want  to  know  the 
chances  of  getting  paid.** 

“ Any  security  ? ” inquired  the  detective. 

u Oh,  yes — Fm  not  such  a fool  as  to  lend  ladies  money 
without  security,"  said  Madame  with  a shrill  laugh.  64  Fve 
got  a diamond  necklace,  but  I think  it  belongs  to  Sir 
Rupert  Balscombe — -part  of  the  family  jewels— I suppose 
Fd  better  go  and  see  him." 

“ I think  that  would  be  the  wisest  plan." 

u Humph  !”  -sniffed  the  lady,  frowning,  44  I don’t  know. 
On  the  one  hand  he  may  pay  me  my  money  and  redeem 
the  necklace,  on  the  other  he  may  kick  up  a row,  and  I 
don’t  want  my  dealings  in  this  way  made  public.  Fd  have 
a whole  army  of  husbands  down  on  me— just  like  men — 
they  go  to  the  Jews  themselves  to  get  ready  money,  and 
when  their  wives  do  a bit  of  borrowing  with  their  milliners, 
they  make  a fuss." 

“ Why  not  sell  the  necklace  ? n 

“That’s  what.  I’m  going  to  do  as  soon  as  I hear  from 
Lady  Balscombe.  I suppose  she’JJ  be  divorced,  and  marry 
Calliston — more  fool  she,  for  he’s  a scamp — then  she’ll  want 
to  redeem  the  necklace  quietly,  but  1 don’t  know  where  ta 
write  to  her.  Where  have  they  gone  to?* 


m 


fH  FWQADILLt  2VZ23JL 


w I hear  in  a yacht  to  the  Azores,”  said  Dowker,  who 
knew  everything ; 44  they'll  turn  up  again  I've  no  doubt — 
then  you  can  see  her.” 

“ What  an  idiot  she  was  to  give  up  such  a fair  position  ! * 
said  Madame,  who  looked  at  the  whole  affair  from  a purely 
worldly  point  of  view.  “ She  was  nobody  when  Sir  Rupert 
picked  her  up,  and  he  gave  her  everything — she  made  ducks 
and  drakes  of  his  money — they  fought,  and  the  result  is 
she's  gone  off  with  Callistoa— a man  who  is  the  biggest 
scamp  in  town.” 

“ Yes,  I know,  got  a little  crib  in  St.  John's  Wood, 
said  Dowker,  who  had  no  hesitation  in  talking  plainly  to 
this  woman,  who  knew  as  much  about  fast  life  as  he  did. 

“So  I hear — never  saw  his  mistress,  but  hear  she's  a 
beautiful  woman — there  will  be  a row  when  she  hears  his 
latest  escapade ; but  he'll  get  tired  of  Lady  BaLscombe  and 
go  back  to  the  St  John's  Wood  establishment — they  always 
do.” 

“Weil,  the  whole  affair  will  end  as  usual,"  said  the  de- 
tective with  a sigh,  “ in  a public  scandal  and  divorce;  but  I 
want  to  see  you  about  this,*'  and  taking  the  hat  out  of  the 
parcel,  he  laid  it  before  Madame.  It  was  rather  striking- 
looking — black  straw,  with  brown  and  blue  velvets  twisted 
together  and  caught  on  one  side  with  a slender  silver 
crescent 

“ Yes,  that's  mine,"  said  Madame,  glancing  at  it  “Rather 
good  style,  I think.  What  do  you  want  to  know  ? " 

“ The  name  of  the  person  you  sold  it  to." 

u Humph ! — rather  a difficult  question  to  answer — s*.tae 
one  might  have  bought  it  and  taken  it  away  with  them,  but 
if  they  left  an  address  I'll  soon  find  out” 

She  touched  a bell,  and  a girl  appeared. 

w Send  Miss  Brail  to  me — she's  invaluable,"  explained 
Madame  to  Dowker  when  the  girl  had  vanished  44  Such  a 
wonderful  memory,  forgets  nothing.  I find  her  useful  in 
my  deals  with  ladies— a milliner's  business  is  not  all  bonnets 
and  hats,  as  we  know." 

44  It's  more  than  the  world  does,"  responded  Dowker  with 
as  near  an  approach  to  a smile  as  he  allowed  himself. 

Miss  Brad  made  her  appearance,  and  decided  the  ques- 
tion at  once. 

44  It  was  sold  to  a lady  about  two  months  ago — tom* 
where  in  St  John's  Wood"  . 


jDOWKEH~~  BETECTim 


' if 

18 Was  it  a real  lady?”  asked  Dowker, 

44  Well,  she  was  more  like  a servant,”  responded  Miss 
Brail  doubtfully,  44  I should  say  a lady’s  maid.” 

44  Was  it  sent  ?”  asked  Madame  impatiently. 

14  Yes — the  address  is  in  the  book,”  answered  Miss  Brail, 
and  went  out  to  get  the  book.  In  a few  moments  she 
returned,  and  announced : 

44  Lydia  Fenny,  Cleopatra  Villa,  St.  John’s  Wood.” 

In  spite  of  his  habitual  phlegm,  Dowker  started,  on  per- 
ceiving which,  Madame  dismissed  Miss  Brail  at  once. 

44  Why  do  you  start  ? ” she  asked  curiously,  when  the  door 
had  closed. 

Dowker  sighed  in  his  usual  manner,  and  taking  out  his 
handkerchief,  twisted  it  up  into  a hard  ball,  a sure  sign  that 
he  was  impressed  in  some  way. 

44  Cleopatra  Villa  is  Lord  Calliston’s  place.” 

14  Oh  1 ” said  Madame  in  rather  an  amazed  tone,  44  what  a 
curious  thing  we  should  have  been  speaking  about  him  ! I 
suppose  this  Lydia  Fenny  is  the  lady’s  maid  there.” 

44  Was  the  lady’s  maid/’  corrected  Dowker. 

* What  do  you  mean  ? 99 

14  If  this  hat,”  touching  it,  44  was  sold  by  you  to  Lydia 
Fenny — she  is  dead.” 

44  Dead!” 

* Yes,  the  victim  of  the  Jermyn  Street  murder.” 

14 What?”  Madame  Rene  sprang  to  her  feet,  greatly 
Agitated. 

44 1 wanted  to  find  out  the  name  of  the  dead  woman  in 
order  to  get  a clue  to  the  perpetrator  of  the  crime,”  ex- 
plained Dowker  rapidly,  44  this  hat  was  on  the  head  when 
the  body  was  discovered  It  had  a mark  inside  showing  it 
was  bought  here,  so  I came  here  to  find  out  to  whom  it  was 
sold — you  tell  me  Lydia  Fenny,  so  the  logical  conclusion  is 
that  Lydia  Fenny  is  the  victim.” 

44  It’s  all  very  strange,”  said  Madame,  rapidly  looking  at 
him  with  keen  eyes,  44but  it  may  not  be  Lydia  Fenny  at  alL 
Other  hats  might  have  been  made  similar  to  this  one,  or 
Lydia  Fenny  might  have  lent  or  given  the  hat  to  another 
person.” 

44  There  is  only  one  way  of  finding  that  out,”  said  Dowker, 
wrapping  up  the  hat  and  rising  to  his  feet 

44 And  that  is?” 

* To  make  inquiries  at  Cleopatra  Villa.  Good-day,”  and 

i 


li  tHfi  ttCCABttLT  PTO&S. 

the  detective  went  out,  leaving  Madame  transfixed  with 
astonishment 

“Humph,*  she  said  at  length.  “!  wonder  if  Lord 
Calliston’©  gp&  anything  to  do  with  this  murder.* 

CHAPTER  IV. 

the  st.  John’s  wood  establishment. 

Cleopatra  Villa  was  a pleasant  house  and  a very  expensive 
one,  as  Lord  Calliston  found  to  his  cost.  Eut  then  the 
presiding  deity,  • by  name  Lena  Sarschine,  was  very  beauti- 
ful, and  insisted  upon  having  her  dwelling  fitted  up  in  a 
corresponding  manner,  so  Calliston  gave  way,  and  spent  a 
small  fortune  on  this  bijou  residence. 

Dowker  knew  a good  many  of  these  little  paradises 
with  their  worldly-wise  Eves,  the  existence  of  whom  was 
not  supposed  to  be  known  to  the  polite  world,  so  he  felt 
quite  at  ease  when  upon  ringing  the  bell  he  was  admitted 
to  the  garden  by  a solemn-looking  man  servant.  He  was 
well  acquainted  with  Calliston’s  life  both  public  and  private 
— neither  side  being  very  reputable — but  then,  with  such 
advantages  of  wrong  doing  as  the  world  now  offers,  ’tis  hard 
to  be  virtuous. 

Calliston  had  come  into  the  title  whilst  in  his  childhood, 
and,  the  estate  having  been  well  looked  after  during  his 
minority,  he  found  plenty  of  money  to  spend  when  he 
came  of  age,  and  he  certainly  did  spend  it.  Horse-racing 
and  yachting  were  his  two  principal  pleasures,  but 
curiously  enough  his  name  was  never  mixed  up  with  any 
welhknown  woman,  and  few  of  his  friends  knew  except 
by  hearsay  of  the  divinity  who  dwelt  in  Cleopatra  Villa, 
fcalliston  had  fallen  in  love  with  her  down  in  the  country 
some  years  before,  and  bringing  her  up  to  town  installed 
her  in  the  bijou  residence,  which  she  rarely  left.  Occasion- 
ally she  went  to  the  theatre,  and  sometimes  drove  in  the  Park, 
but  at  such  rare  intervals  that  few  people  knew  who  she 
was.  Calliston  was  very  jealous  of  her  and  seldom  asked 
his  friends  to  supper,  but  she  was  reported  by  the  few  who 
had  been  thus  honoured  to  be  a very  beautiful  woman 
with  charming  manners.  The  general  opinion  was  that  he 
would  end  up  by  marrying  her,  when  his  entanglement  with 
Lady  Balscombe  became  known,  and  henceforward  be  wa* 


®8S  SI*.  JOMSTS  WOOD  ESTABIISHMEOT. 


reen  more  by  that  lady's  side  than  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
St  John's  Wood. 

Dowker,  from  some  mysterious  source  only  known  to 
himself,  was  cognisant  of  all  this,  and  had  now  come  down 
to  discover  what  connection  the  establishment  of, St  John's 
Wood  had  with  the  murder  in  Jermyn  Street 

He  knew  that  Calliston  had  gone  off  with  Lady  Bals- 
eombe,  so  said  he  had  a message  from  him  and  would  like 
to  see  Miss  Sarschine.  The  servant  showed  him  into  a 
magnificently-furaished  drawing-room,  where  he  awaited 
the  appearance  of  the  lady,  intending  when  she  entered  to 
ask  her  all  particulars  about  her  maid  Lydia  Fenny,  with 
».  view  to  discovering  the  perpetrator  of  the  crime.  Being 
of  an  inquiring  turn  of  mind  Dowker  arose  from  his  seat 
when  the  door  was  closed,  and  folding  his  hands  behind  his 
beck  strolled  about  the  room,  his  lank  grey-clad  figure 
seeming  sadly  out  of. place. 

It  was  not  a very  large  apartment,  but  luxuriously 
furnished,  the  walls  being  hung  with  pale-green  silk  draped 
in  graceful  folds  and  caught  up  here  and  there  with  thick 
silver  cords.  The  carpet,  also  of  a pale-green,  was  em- 
broidered with  bunches  of  white  flowers,  and  the  window 
curtains  were  of  soft  white  Liberty  silk.  There  were  two 
windows  on  one  side  in  deep  recesses  filled  with  brilliantly- 
tinted  flowers,  white  blossoms  predominating,  and  at  the 
end  of  the  room  were  folding  doors  opening  into  a con- 
servatory filled  with  ferns,  in  the  middle  of  which  a 
small  fountain  splashed  musically  into  a wide  marble  basin. 
There  were  low  velvet-covered  lounging  chairs  all  about, 
tables  crowded  with  bric-drbracdjxA  photographs  in  oxydised 
silver  frames,  whilst  here  and  there  on  the  carpet  were  skins 
of  bears  and  tigers.  Contrary  to  the  usual  custom  in 
drawing-rooms  there  was  only  one  mirror,  a-  small  oval 
glass  over  the  mantel-piece  framed  in  pale-green  plush. 
In  the  corners  were  high  palms  and  other  tropical  vege- 
tation, with  white  marble  statues  peering  from  out  of 
tl)eir  green  leaves,  and  in  one  corner  a handsome  grand 
piano  on  the  top  of  which  lay  a lot  of  sheet  music.  The 
room  was  illuminated  by  two  or  three  tall  brass  lamps  with 
bright  green  shades  smothered  in  creamy  lace,  and  just 
ever  the  piano  were  a number  of  quaint-iooking  weapons 
arranged  in  a fantastic  fashion.  Highland  broadswords, 
Indian  daggers*  and  Malay  krisses  were  afl  grouped  round  a 


THE  PICCADILLY  PUZZLE. 


n 

small  sfiver  shield  handsomely  embossed,  and  though  at 
first  they  seemed  somewhat  out  of  place  against  the  rich 
silk  hangings,  yet  when  the  eyes  became  accustomed  to 
them  the  effect  was  not  unpleasant. 

Dowker  took  a leisurely  survey  of  the*  apartment  and 
then  returned  to  his  seat  to  await  the  appearance  of  Miss 
Sarschine  and  to  think  over  the  curious  aspect  the  Piccadilly 
case  now  presented. 

His  cogitations  ran  somewhat  after  this  fashion. 

The  time  of  the  discovery  of  the  body  by  Mr.  Ellersby 
was  about  half-past  two — the  medical  evidence  at  the  in- 
quest was  to  the  effect  that  the  deceased  had  been  dead 
about  two  hours,  so  allowing  a margin  for  possible  mao- 
curacies  the  crime  must  have  been  committed  about  mid- 
night, at  which  time  there  would  be  a certain  amount  of 
traffic  through  Jermyn  Street  But  then  the  spectacle  of  a 
man  talking  to  a woman  in  the  doorway  of  a house  would 
hardly  attract  much  attention,  and  if  the  murderer  had  ac- 
complished his  purpose  by  means  of  poison  there  was  no 
doubt  the  fanciful  description  given  by  Hash  would  be  toler- 
ably correct  Supposing  the  assassin  to  have  wounded  his 
victim  by  means  of  a poisoned  weapon,  she  would  have  be- 
come confused  and  giddy,  finally  passing  into  a comatose 
state,  in  which  she  would  quietly  expire.  Therefore,  there 
would  be  no  screaming  to  attract  the  attention  of  passers- 
by,  and  albeit  in  any  case  lying  down  would  have  aroused 
curiosity,  yet  the  fog  was  so  thick  on  that  night  that  no  one 
would  see  the  position  of  the  criminal  and  hts  victim. 

Now,  the  next  question  was  why  did  Miss  Sarschine  not 
make  inquiries  after  her  maid — a week  had  elapsed  since 
the  murder,  and  the  girl's  absence  for  that  time  would 
certainly  seem  unaccountable.  On  her  non-appearance 
her  mistress  would  watch  the  papers  to  see  if  anything  had 
happened  to  her.  She  would  then  notice  the  Jermyn 
Street  murder,  and  from  the  description  given  would  have 
no  difficulty  in  recognizing  her  servant.  Since  though  she 
had  without  doubt  become  cognisant  ©£  the  fact  that 
Lydia  Fenny  was  dead  she  had  not  come  forward  to 
identify  the  body,  and  Dowker  pondered  over  the  reason 
she  had  for  this  reticence. 

“She  can't  have  committed  the  crime  herself,*  said 
Dowker  in  a puzzled  tone,  “ as  she  would  hardly  do  so  in 
such  a public  place,  but  why  has  she  been  so  quiet  ? — again 


tm  w,  iomrs  wood  ®tabusemeht.  si 

she  couldn't  know  anything  ateit  poisoned  weapons™ 
no,  she  must  have  some  otheg  reason  for  holding  her 

tongue." 

At  this  moment  his  attention  wm  caught  by  the  display 
of  weapons  on  the  wall,  and  wife  a short  exclamation  he 
walked  across  the  room  and  looked  sharply  at  them.  They 
were  arranged  in  a fantastic  pattern,  each  side  being  the 
same,  but  here  Dowker  noticed  with  much  curiosity  that  one 
side  was  incomplete,  a Malay  krm  having  been  removed. 
He  looked  at  the  other  side  and  there  were  certainly  two 
arranged  crossways,  but  on  the  other  there  was  only  one. 
Dowker  was  startled  by  this  discovery  as  it  seemed  to 
point  to  the  fact  that  the  crime  had  been  committed  by 
the  missing  kriss.  He  knew  the  Malays  were  a savage 
nation,  and  without  doubt  poisoned  their  daggers,  so  the 
absence  of  one  of  these  would  argue  that  this  had  been  the 
weapon  used.  He  gingerly  touched  the  point  of  a kriss 
with  the  tip  of  his  finger,  and  then  drew  it  hastily  away. 

“It  might  be  poisoned,”  he  muttered,  looking  at  his 
finger  to  assure  himself  he  had  not  broken  the  skin.  “ I 
wonder  if  it  is — Fd  like  to  find  out.” 

Glancing  hastily  round  the  room  to  make  sure  he  was 
alone,  he  took  a kriss  from  the  wall  on  the  other  side  so  that 
the  pattern  was  now  equalised,  and  trusted  to  this  fact 
to  hide  his  abstraction  of  the  weapon.  Then  he  took 
some  old  letters  out  of  his  pocket,  and  tearing  them  up  into 
strips  carefully  swathed  the  blade  of  the  kriss  to  prevent 
possible  accidents,  and  slipped  the  parcel  ino  his  breast 
pocket 

“ Fll  go  and  see  a doctor,”  he  muttered  to  himself  as  he 
buttoned  his  coat,  “ and  try  the  effect  of  this  on  a dog  ; if 
the  symptoms  of  death  are  the  same,  that  will  be  proof 
conclusive  that  the  missing  dagger  was  used  to  commit 
the  crime.  Once  I establish  that,  I'll  soon  find  out  the 
guilty  party,  as  it  must  have  been  some  one  in  this  house — 
especially  as  Lydia  Fenny  was  a servant  here.” 

He  walked  back  again  to  his  chair  and  had  just  sat  down 
when  the  door  opened  and  a woman  entered.  Not  at  all 
pretty,  medium  height,  dark  hair  and  eyes,  and  a sharp, 
active-looking  face,  which,  however,  was  disfigured  by 
marks  of  the  small  pox.  She  was  dressed  in  a well-made 
dark  costume  and  wore  a knot  of  crimson  ribbon  round  her 
throat  Dowker  surveyed  this  ladv  carefully  and  instantly 


m THE  HCCADlLLYtroma 

came  to  the  conclusion  that  this  was  a fellow-semaB  off 
Lydia  Fenny — certainly  not  Miss  Sarschine. 

“ Hang  it,"  muttered  Dowker,  “ he  wouldn't  makfi  Inve 
to  that ! ” 

The  newcomer  advanced  as  Dowker  arose  to  his  fe&i 
“You  want  to  see  Miss  Sarschine  ? * ^she  asked,  losing 

at  the  detective. 

“ Yes ; have  I the  pleasure ? * 

“ No ; I am  not  Miss  Sarschine,  but  I can  let  hen  feave 
any  message  you  wish  delivered." 

“ Cannot  I see  the  lady  herself?" 

“You  cannot;  she  is  out  of  town." 

“ Oh ! " Dowker  looked  rather  blank  This  then  was 
the  reason  Miss  Sarschine  did  not  come  forward  to  identify 
the  body. 

“ From  whom  is  your  message  ? ” asked  the  woman. 

“ From — from — Lord  Cailiston,"  said  Dowker,  in  a feesi' 
taring  manner. 

“ That's  impossible,"  replied  the  woman  curtly. 

“Why?" 

“Because  Lord  Calliston  is  away  yachting,  and  Miss 
Sarschine  is  with  him." 

“Oh,  indeed!" 

Dowker  was  beginning  to  feel  rather  nonplussed  as  he 
was  now  at  a loss  for  an  excuse  for  his  presence,  so  he  tried 
another  plan. 

“ Do  you  read  the  papers  ? " he  asked  sharply. 
“Sometimes;  not  often,"  said  the  woman,  somewhat 
taken  aback.  “ Why  do  you  ask  ? " 

“ I have  particular  reasons  for  the  question." 

“ 1 am  not  bound  to  answer  your  question.  May  I ask 
your  name  ? " 

“ Dowker—detecrive." 

The  woman  started  at  this  and  looked  ft  little  curiously 
at  him. 

“ What  do  you  want  to  know  ? * 

“ Are  any  of  the  servants  of  this  house  missing  ?m 
“ No." 

“ Dear  me  I have  any  been  lately  dismissed  ? * 

“ No ; do  you  allude  to  any  particular  servant  T* 

“Yes;  Lydia  Fenny." 

The  woman  started  again. 

11  What  about  her  ? " % 


tm  or.  tomes  wood  B 

* She  is  dead.  If  you  had  reaj  the  papers  yen  would 
have  noticed  the  Jermyh  Street  tragedy.  She  is  the  victim.” 
44  There  is  some  mistake,”  said  rke  woman,  quietly, 

“I  don’t  think  so,”  replied  Dusker,  coolly  taking  out 
the  hat  from  the  newspaper.  44  B#  you  know  this  ? ” 

At  the  sight  of  the  hat  the  #Dman  became  violently 
agitated 

“Yes  ; where  did  you  get  this  t * 

“ It  was  on  the  head  of  the  woman  who  was  murdered.’7 
The  other  gave  a cry  and  staggfsred  back. 

“ Oh,  my  God  1 99  she  said,  und«ff  her  breath,  44  wh&t  does 

it  all  mean  ? 99 

“ Mean  ? St  means  that  Lydia  Fenny  is  dead*1 
44  No ! 99  she  cried  vehemently*  “ aot  dead” 

44  How  do  you  know  ? 99 
44  Because  I am  Lydia  Fenny/' 

Dowker  stared  at  her  aghast 

“Yes,”  she  went  on  rkpidly,  “the  hat  is  mine;  how  did 
you  find  out  I was  the  owner  ? ” 

44 1 went  to  Madame  R£ne  and  she  told  me  you  bought 
it  from  her ; but  who  was  the  dead  woman  ? ” 

Lydia  Fenny  again  gave  a cry, 

44 Fm  afraid  to  say — Fm  afraid  to  say;  how  was  she 

dressed  ? ” 

44  In  a sealskin  jacket,  a silk  dress  and  that  hat” 

Lydia  wrung  her  hands  in  despair, 

44  It  must  be  true,”  she  moaned ; “ it  is  the  dress  dm 

wore.7” 

44  Who  wore  ? * asked  Dowker  m an  excited  tone. 

44  My  mistress — Miss  Sarschine.” 

The  case  seemed  to  be  more  mysterious  than  ever;  in- 
stead of  the  maid  it  was  the  mistress,  Dowker  took  a 
photograph  of  the  deceased  and  gave  it  to  Lydia, 

44  Who  is  that  ? 99  he  asked  eagerly, 

44  Miss  Sarchine,”  she  replied  quickly  ; 44  but  what  is  the 
matter  with  her  face  ? M 
“Swollen  by  poison* 

44  Poison  ? 99 

“Yes.  On  Monday  last  she  was  found  lying  dead  m 
Jermyn  Street,  killed  by  a poisoned  dagger,” 

44  Last  Monday  night  1 * said  Lydia  with  & gasp*  44  that 

was  the  last  time  I saw  her.” 

“Look  here,”  said  Dowker  quietly*  * r tell  me 


U THE  PICCABXLLY  PUZZLE. 

all  about  it.  I am  employed  in  the  case  and  I wa&t  to 
discover  who  murdered  your  mistress : so  tell  me  you 
know.” 

Lydia  Fenny,  who  seemed  to  possess  strong  nerves  sat 
down  and  began  to  speak  deliberately. 

11 1 will  tell  you  everything  and  help  you  to  bring  the 
murderer  of  my  poor  mistress  to  justice,  but  I don’t  know 
anyone  who  would  have  killed  her.  She  lived  a very  quiet 
life  and  had  few  friends.  Lord  Calliston  came  here  very 
frequently,  and  she  was  very  much  in  love  with  him.  Where 
she  came  from  I don’t  know,  as  I have  only  been  with  hef 
about  a year,  but  he  often  told  her  he  would  make  her  hit 
wife,  and  she  was  always  imploring  him  to  do  so.  About 
three  months  ago  he  met  some  great  lady ” 

“ Lady  Balscombe  ? ” 

“Yes,  that  was  the  name — and  fell  in  love  with  her.  He 
neglected  Miss  Sarschine  and  she  reproached  him.  There 
was  a lot  of  trouble  and  quarrelling  between  them  and  Lord 
Calliston  stayed  away  a good  bit.  Three  weeks  ago  I went 
away  for  a holiday,  and  when  I came  back  I found  my 
mistress  in  a terrible  state.  She  had  discovered  in  some 
way  that  Lord  Calliston  had  determined  to  elope  with  Lady 
Balscombe  and  go  off  to  the  Azores  in  his  yacht.  Miss 
Sarschine  was  mad  with  rage ; she  said  she  would  kill  them 
both ; and  then  thought  she’d  play  a trick  upon  Lord 
Calliston  and  go  off  with  him  instead.  This  was  on  Monday 
last” 

“The  time  of  the  murder,”  murmured  Dowker. 

“ She  went  to  Lord  Calliston’s  rooms  in  Piccadilly  and 
found  out  from  his  valet  that  he  intended  to  leave  town 
that  evening  for  Shoreham,  where  his  yacht  was  lying, 
and  that  Lady  Balscombe  vras  to  follow  him  early  next 
morning.  So  she  came  back  here  and,  waiting  till  the 
evening,  dressed  herself  and  put  on  my  hat  as  less  con- 
spicuous than  her  own.  She  intended  to  catch  the  ten 
minutes  past  nine  train  from  London  Bridge  Station  and 
go  right  on  board  Lord  Calliston’s  yach*-  and  insist  upcn 
his  sailing  and  leaving  Lady  Balscombe  in  the  lurch.  She 
went  out  about  seven  with  that  intention  and  since  then  I 
have  heard  nothing  of  her.  I thought  she  had  carried  out 
her  scheme  and  gone  off  with  Lord  Calliston  to  the 
Azores.” 

“Did  you  not  hear  of  the  Jermyn  Street  murder?” 


*KB  ST.  JOHN’S  WOOD  ESTABLISHMENT.  % 

••Yes,  casually,  but  I never  thought  of  connecting  it 
with  my  mistress,  and  all  the  servants  here  live  very  quietly, 
so  they  would  never  think  Miss  Sarschine  was  the  victim.” 
“What  was  she  doing  in  Jermyn  Street?” 

“ I can’t  tell  you.  Lord  Calliston  has  rooms  in  Picca- 
dilly, so  perhaps  she  went  there  first  and  then  through 
Jermyn  Street  on  her  way  to  the  station.” 

“ You  do  not  know  anyone  who  had  a grudge  against 
her?” 

“No — no  one.” 

Dowker  arose  to  his  feet. 

“I  will  call  and  see  you  again,”  he  said,  “but  mean- 
while give  me  Lord  Calliston's  address  in  Piccadilly  and  I 
will  find  out  if  Miss  Sarschine  was  at  his  rooms  on  that 
night.” 

Lydia  Fenny,  who  was  now  crying,  gave  the  necessary 
address  and  followed  him  to  the  door. 

“One  moment,”  said  Dowker,  stopping.  “Where  is  the 
dagger  that  used  to  be  on  the  wall  ? ” 

Lydia  looked  round  for  the  weapons  and  gave  a cry  of 
astonishment 
“ Two  are  gone.” 

“ I have  the  one,  but  the  other — where  is  it  ? ” 

“ Miss  Sarschine  took  it  down  on  Monday,  and  said  if 
Calliston  did  not  take  her  with  him  she'd  kill  him.” 

“ Kill  him — not  herself?  ” 

“No,  she  had  no  idea  of  committing  suicide.  What  are 
you  going  to  do  with  the  other  ? ” 

“ Try  it  on  a dog,  and  find  out  if  the  symptoms  of  death 
are  the  same,  then  I will  know  the  companion  dagger  to 
fldft  was  the  cause  of  your  mistress's  death.” 

“ But  who  would  take  it  from  her  and  use  it  ? ” 
w That's  what  I’ve  got  to  find  out.  She  must  have  met 
some  one  in  Jermyn  Street  who  killed  her  with  it.” 

“ It  can't  be  suicide  ? ” 

“ Hardly.  The  wound  is  in  the  jugular  vein  in  the  neck, 
so  it  could  hardly  have  been  self-inflicted.  Besides,  she 
would  not  choose  a public  street  to  die  in.” 

“ When  shall  I see  you  again  ? ” 

“ After  I have  found  out  what  took  place  in  the 
Piccadilly  chambers  on  Monday  last.” 

And  Dowker  departed,  very  well  satisfied  with  the  result 
his  inquiries.  1 


m yhs  hccabilly  puma 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  PICCADILLY  ROOMS, 

Calliston  occupied  a suite  of  rooms  in  a side  street  leading 
Piccadilly  ; and  very  comfortable  apartments  they  wer^ 
Being  luxuriously  furnished  in  the  prevailing  fashion  of  the 
day.  His  sitting-room  was  hung  with  dark  red  curtains 
&nd  carpet  to  match,  and  the  furniture  being  of  a kind 
designed  to  promote  ease  and  comfort,  it  looked  very  snug, 
particularly  at  night.  There  was  a desk  in  one  corner  of 
the  room  piled  up  with  a disorderly  heap  of  papers.  Over 
this  were  fencing  foils  and  boxing  gloves,  arranged  against 
the  wall,  and  the  pictures  mostly  consisted  of  photographs 
of  pretty  women  and  paintings  of  celebrated  horses.  There 
was  a small  table  near  the  fire-place  on  which  lay  pipes, 
cigar-boxes  and  tobacco  jars,  and  on  the  side-board  a spirit 
stand,  which  was  much  in  favour  with  Calliston’s  friends 
A small  book-case  contained  an  assortment  of  French 
novels,  principally  of  the  Zola  and  Mendes  school,  and, 
judging  from  the  shabby  appearance  of  the  books,  must 
have  been  pretty  well  read.  The  whole  apartment  had  ft 
dissipated  air,  and  the  atmosphere  was  still  impregnated 
with  a faint  odour  of  stale  tobacco  smoke.  Opening  off 
this  apartment  wrere  a dressing-room  and  bed-room,  and 
though  the  whole  manage  was  somewhat  limited,  yet  it 
made  up  in  quality  what  it  lacked  in  quantity. 

When  Calliston  was  away,  his  Lares  and  Penates  were 
looked  after  by  a worthy  lady,  who  rejoiced  in  the  name  of 
Mrs.  Povy,  an  appellation  which  has  in  its  sound  a certain 
aroma  of  Pepys*  Diary,  but  Lord  Calliston  and  his  friends 
not  being  acquainted  with  the  ingenuous  pages  of  the  quaint 
Samuel,  were  unaware  of  this,  so  Mrs.  Povy  was  generally 
known  by  the  name  of  Totty.  She  was  elderly,  very  stout, 
with  a round  red  face,  the  tint  of  which  was  due  to  health 
and  not  drink,  as  she  seldom  imbibed  anything  stronger 
:hwa  tat  Totty  was  addicted  t©  a kind  of  regulation 


THE  PICCADILLY  ROOMS. 


m 


oofform,  consisting  of  a black  dress,  a huge  white  apron, 
and  a muslin  cap,  set  coquettishly  on  the  side  of  her  elderly 
head.  She  was  one  of  those  quaint  old  motherly  creatures, 
who  never  offend,  no  matter  what  they  say,  and  she  fre- 
quently lectured  Calliston  on  the  irregularity  of  his  life, 
which  that  noble  lord  accepted  with  an  amused  laugh. 

The  late  Mr.  Povy  had  long  since  departed  this  life,  and 
having  been  what  is  vulgarly  known  as  a warm  man,  had 
left  Totty  comfortably  off,  so  that  lady  occupied  her  present 
position  more  from  choice  than  necessity.  She  had  a gruff 
voice,  and  her  casual  remarks  had  the  sound  of  positive 
commands,  which  she  found  of  great  use  with  refractory 
servants. 

Totty  learned  from  the  papers  that  Lord  Calliston  had 
gone  off  to  the  Azores  with  Lady  Balscombe,  and  expressed 
her  disapproval  of  his  action  in  the  most  emphatic  manner 
to  Mrs.  Swizzle  (a  friend  of  her  youth)  as  they  sat  over 
their  four-o'clock  tea. 

44  Ah,"  said  Totty,  fixing  her  eyes  pensively  on  the  little 
black  tea-pot,  44  it  ain’t  no  good  being  a reformatory.  The 
way  Fve  talked  to  him  about  his  goings  on  and  now  look  at 
his  goings  off.” 

“Perhaps  he  couldn't  help  himself,”  said  Mrs.  Swizzle, 
who  was  tall  and  thin,  and  spoke  in  a kind  of  subdued  whistle. 

44  He  never  tried  to,  I'll  be  bound,”  retorted  Mrs.  Povy, 
wrathfully.  44  Not  as  he's  always  bin  after  married  pussons, 
for  I know  there  is  a gal  as  he  pays  for  her  board  and 
lodging.” 

“ Lor',”  whistled  Mrs.  Swizzle,  curiously.  44  Where  ? * 

“Never  you  mind,”  returned  Totty,  screwing  up  her 
mouth.  “ She’s  a gal  as  no  decent  woman  'ud  speak  to  her 
—-silks  and  satings  and  wasting  of  money — oh,  I’ve  no 
patience  with  ’em  1 Kettles  is  snow  in  whiteness  with  gals? 
morals  now.” 

At  this  moment  .here  came  a ring  at  the  door,  and 
Totty  hurrying  away  to  attend  to  it,  Mrs.  Swizzle  made  the 
best  use  of  her  time  by  eating  up  the  buttered  toast  as 
rapidly  as  she  could. 

When  Mrs,  Povy  opened  the  door  she  was  confronted  by 
a lank  figure  in  grey,  which  was  none  other  than  Dowker, 
come  to  prosecute  his  inquiries  concerning  Miss  Sarschine. 

“Weil?”  enquired  Totty  gruffly,  annoyed  at  being  di* 

tarb$4  what  do  you  w&atK 


m 


TEE  PICCADILLY  PUZZLE. 


Dowker  gazed  on  the  substantial  figure  before  him  and 
sighed. 

“ A few  words  with -you  about  Lord  Calliston,”  he  said 
softly. 

Mrs.  Povy  shook  with  wrath. 

“I  ain’t  no  spy  or  gossip,”  she  said.  “And  if  that  k 
that  you  want  to  find  out,  this  ain’t  the  shop — so  walk 
out,”  and  she  prepared  to  shut  the  door.  But  Dowker  was 
too  sharp  for  her,  and  placed  his  foot  inside. 

44  Wait  a moment,  my  good  lady,”  he  said,  quietLy.  44 1 
don’t  mean  any  harm  to  Lord  Calliston,  and  what  I want 
to  speak  to  you  about  is  important.” 

Curiosity  got  the  better  of  Tott/s  wrath,  so  after  a time 
she  consented  to  speak  to  Dowker  privately,  and  to  this 
end  led  him  upstairs  to  Calliston’s  rooms. 

44  We’re  quiet  here,”  she  said,  closing  the  door.  44 1 can’t 
ask  you  into  my  own  room,  as  a perticler  friend  of  mine  is 
drinking  tea  with  me.” 

44  This  will  do  capitally,”  replied  Dowker,  glancing  round 
the  room.  “And  now,  as  my  curiosity  may  appear  rude 
and  you  may  refuse  to  answer  some  of  my  questions,  I may 
as  well  tell  you  who  I am.” 

“And  who  are  you?”  asked  Mrs.  Povy  uneasily,  “a 
noospaper  or  a politics  ? ” 

44  Dowker — detective.” 

Mrs.  Povy’s  naturally  red  face  became  white. 

44  What’s  up  ? ” she  gasped.  44  Has  Lord  Calliston  bin 
doing  anything  wrong  ? ” 

44  No,  no,”  replied  Dowker  soothingly.  “ I only  want  to 
obtain  some  information  about  Miss  Sarschine.” 

44 1 don’t  know  that  kind  of  pusson,”  said  Totty  angrily. 

44  Never  mind  if  you  know  her  or  not,”  retorted  Dowker 
sternly,  44  but  answer  my  questions.” 

Mrs.  Povy  sniffed  and  would  have  refused,  but  there  was 
something  in  the  detective’s  eye  which  quelled  her,  so  she 
yielded  an  ungracious  assent 

44  When  did  Lord  Calliston  leave  town  for  his  yacht  ? * 

* About  a week  ago — on  Monday  last” 

w Where  was  his  yacht  lying  ? ” 

“At  Shoreham.  He  went  to  London  Bridge  Station  to 
catch  the  ten  minutes  past  nine  train.  His  yotsh  was  to 
leave  next  morning.” 

44  Did  he  go  alone  ? ” 


fHl  HCOADUXY  E0OM& 


*t 

“As  far  ns  I know/  retorted  Tatty.  wIf  Lady 
Balscombe  went  with  him  you  can  see  it  in  the  papers.  I 
know  no  more  than  that.'* 

“ How  often  did  Miss  Sarschine  call  on  Monday  ? “ 

“ Once,  in  the  afternoon,  to  see  Lord  Caliiston/ 

“Did  she  see  him?" 

* No,  he  was  out,  so  she  said  she*d  call  agam  m tha 
evening/ 

“ And  did  she  ? * 

“Yes;  but  Lord  Caliiston  had  gone  about  eight  o’dock 
to  catch  his  train.  I suppose  she  thought  he  wouldn’t  go 
till  next  morning." 

“Did  she  know  he  was  going  to  elope  with  Lad? 
Balscombe  ? ” 

“Not  that  I know  of/ 

“Did  she  see  anyone  when  she  came  the  second  time?” 
“Yes,  Mr.  Desmond,  my  lord's  cousia* 

“ What  time  was  that  ? " 

“ About  twelve,  between  eleven  and  twelve.1 
Dowker  pondered  a little.  So  she  called  here  to  see 
Caliiston  just  before  she  was  murdered,  and  saw  Desmond. 
Now  the  question  was,  what  had  Desmond  to  do  with  the 
affair. 

“Was  Mr.  Desmond  here  on  that  evening  by  accident?” 
“No.  He  told  me  he  had  come  to  give  Miss  Sarschine 
a message  from  Lord  Caliiston.** 

“You  did  not  overhear  their  conversation?® 

“ Me/  growled  Tottie,  indignantly,  “ I never  listea*** 
but  when  she  was  leaving  they  were  having  a row/ 

“ About  what  time  ? *' 

“ I think  at  ten  minutes  after  twelve.” 

“ Did  she  go  out  alone  ? n 

“ Yes.  Mr.  Desmond  followed  shortly  aftenmrd& 

“Did  he  say  anything  ? w 
“No,  not  a word/ 

# Dowker  felt  puzzled.  It  was  evident  Desmond  bad 
given  her  a message  from  Caliiston  that  made  her  angry, 
and  she  left  the  house  in  a rage,  but  then  this  did  not 
connect  anyone  with  a design  to  murder  her.  Suddenly 
he  remembered  that  EiJ’ersby  had  mentioned  that  he  had  met 
Desmond  corning  up  St.  James'  Street  a short  time  before 
the  body  was  found  Was  it  possible  that  he  had  killed 
Miss  Sarschine  and  was  then  coming  away  from  the  scene 


THE  H^QAMLLlr  PTJZZLE. 


his  ari me?  Impossible,  because  the  doctor  Said  tha 
woman  must  have  been  dead  some  hours.  And  yet  ha 
might  have  killed  her  and  gone  down  St.  James’  Street  to 
avert  suspicion,  and  then  come  up  again  when  he  thought 
the  coast  would  be  clear.  Unfortunately,  he  had  met 
Ellersby  and  then — well,  Dowker  made  up  his  mind  he 
would  go  and  see  Ellersby,  find  out  what  he  could  about 
the  meeting,  and  afterwards  call  on  Myles  Desmond.  He^ 
perhaps,  might  give  some  satisfactory  explanation  of  his 
interview  with  Miss  Sarschine,  and  account  for  his  presence 
after  the  interview.  If  he  did  not,  well,  it  would  appear 
suspicious. 

While  these  thoughts  were  rapidly  passing  through  his 
mind,  Totty  had  her  eyes  fastened  eagerly  on  him. 

44  Well,  now  I’ve  answered  all  your  questions,”  she  said, 
f<  perhaps  you’ll  tell  me  what  it  all  means.” 

“ Murder ! ” 

Mrs.  Povy  became  quite  excited,  for  she  had  a keen 
relish  for  horrors. 

44  LoP  ! Who’s  dead — not  Lord  Calliston  ? n 

“No.  Miss  Sarschine.” 

“ Miss  Sarschine  ! ” 

“Yes.  She  was  murdered  shortly  after  she  left  these 
rooms  and  after  her  interview  with  Mr.  Desmond.” 

“ Oh,  he  is  innocent,  I’m  sure,”  said  Mrs.  Povy  eagerly. 
“ What  on  earth  should  he  want  to  kill  her  for  ? Besides, 
he’s  in  love  with  Miss  Pen/old.” 

44  Oh,  and  she,  I understand,  was  going  to  marry  Lord 
Calliston.” 

“ I don’t  believe  she’d  ever  have  married  him,”  said 
Tottie  disbelievingly ; “she’s  that  fond  of  Mr.  Desmond, 
as  never  was.  Where  are  you  going  ? ” 

“ To  attend  to  business,”  replied  Dowker,  “ and  by  the 
way,  where  does  Mr.  Desmond  live  ? ” 

“You  ain't  going  to  arrest  him  for  this  murder ?* 
shrieked  Totty. 

“No — no — there’s  no  evidence,”  retorted  Dowker  lightly. 
“Where  dees  he  live?” 

“Primrose  Crescent,  in  Bloomsbury,”  replied  Mrs.  Povy. 

The  detective  took  the  address  and  went  down  stairs, 
followed  by  Mrs.  Povy. 

“You  don’t  think  Mr.  Desmond  did  it,  sir?”  begaa 
Totty, 44  for  a more * 


A itrCCESSTOL  EXPBKl MfflHP. 


si 


49 1 don’t  think  anything,”  said  Dowker,  putting  on  his 
hat  “ You'll  hear  soon  enough  what  is  done.” 

As  he  hurried  away  Mrs.  Povy  shut  the  door  and 
returned  to  her  room,  where  she  implored  Mrs.  Swizzle  to 
mix  her  a glass  of  brandy. 

u I've  'ad  such  a turn,”  she  wailed,  “ as  never  was.  Oh, 
itfg  a blessing  Povy  died  afore  he  saw  his  wife  mixed  up 
with  them  nasty  police.” 


CHAPTER  VL 

A SUCCESSFUL  EXPERIMENT. 

Dowker  walked  along  Piccadilly  thinking  deeply  about 
the  curious  aspect  the  case  was  now  assuming.  As  far  as 
he  could  make  out,  Myles  Desmond  was  the  last  person 
who  saw  Miss  Sarschine  alive,  and  he  having  gone  out  a few 
minutes  after  the  interview,  it  seemed  as  though  he  had  fol- 
lowed her.  The  only  thing  to  be  done  was  to  see  Ellersby, 
and  as  he  was  stopping  at  the  Guelph  Hotel  Dowker  went 
along  in  that  direction.  He  followed  the  same  path 
as  he  surmised  the  dead  woman  must  have  taken,  but 
what  puzzled  him  was  the  reason  she  had  for  going  into 
Jermyn  Street. 

“ After  she  found  out  Calliston  had  gone  off  with  Lady 
Balscombe,”  he  muttered,  “ the  most  obvious  course  would 
be  for  her  to  go  home,  but  she  evidently  did  not  intend 
to  do  so.  I wonder  if  she  walked  or  took  a cab  ? Walked, 
I suppose.  Let  me  see,  it  was  a foggy  night  and  she  got 
lost,  that  is  the  explanation.  But  then  this  man  or  woman 
she  met ; it  must  have  been  a friend  as  she  would  hardly 
have  stopped  talking  to  a stranger,  unless  indeed  she 
asked  the  way. . Lord,”  ejaculated  Mr.  Dowker,  suddenly 
stopping  short,  “fancy  if  this  murder  turns  out  to  be  the 
work  of  some  tramp,  but  no,  that's  bosh,  tramps  wouldn't 
use  a poisoned  dagger — unless  they  took  the  one  she 
carried.  Hang  it  1 it's  the  most  perplexing  case  I was  ever 
in.” 

He  had  by  this  time  arrived  at  the  Guelph  Hotel  and 
sent  up  his  card  to  Mr.  Ellersby.  The  waiter  soon 
returned  with  the  information  that  Mr.  Ellersby  was  in  and 
would  see  him,  so  he  went  upstairs  and  was  shown  into  a 
ritting-room.  At  one  end  near  the  window  sat  Spencer 


fHE  pioca:dillt  PVZZ1M. 


Ellersby  in  a comfortable  armchair  smoking  a pipe  and 
reading  a French  noveL  A remarkably  unpromising- 
looking  bulldog  lay  at  his  feet  and  arose  with  an  ominous 
growl  as  Dowker  entered  the  room. 

“ Lie  down  Pickles,”  said  Elllersby  to  this  amiable  animal, 
who  obeyed  the  command  in  a sulky  manner.  “ Well,  Mr, 
Dowker,  what  do  you  want  to  see  me  about  ? " 

44  That  case,  sir,”  said  Dowker,  taking  a seat. 

“ Oh,  of  course,”  replied  Ellersby,  shrugging  his  shoulders, 
“ I guessed  as  much.  I thought  I’d  done  with  the  whole 
affair  at  the  inquest.” 

‘yAs  far  as  it  then  went,  sir,”  said  the  detective,  quickly ; 
“but  I’ve  found  out  a lot  since  that  time.” 

“ Ah,  indeed  ! The  name  of  the  assassin  ? * 

“ Not  yet,  sir — I’ll  do  that  later  on — but  the  name  oi 
the  victim.” 

“ Yes  ? — and  it  is ? " 

44  Lena  Sarschine." 

14  Never  heard  of  her.  Who  is  she,  what  is  she,  and 
where  does  she  live  ? ” 

“She  wad  Lord  Calliston’s  mistress,”  replied  Dowker. 
“ I think  that  answers  all  the  other  questions.” 

“Hum!  A cottage  in  St.  John’s  Wood  — gilded  vice, 
and  all  the  rest  of  it  And  what  was  she  doing  in  Jermyn 
Street  that  night  ? ” 

44 1 don’t  know,  sir.  That’s  one  of  the  things  I’ve  got  to 
discover.” 

44  Well,  what  else  have  you  found  out,  and  how  did  you 
manage  to  acquire  your  information  ? ” 

44  That  was  easy  enough,”  said  Dowker  confidentially. 
“ I’ll  just  tell  you  all,  sir,  for  I want  you  to  give  me  soma 
information.” 

“ Delighted — if  I can.* 

“As  tc  the  finding  out,  sir.  The  hat  worn  by  the  dead 
*un  had  a ticket  inside,  showing  it  was  made  by  Madame 
RSne,  of  Regent  Street  I went  there,  and  found  out  it 
had  been  sotd  to  a woman  called  Lydia  Fenny,  of  Cleopatra 
Villa,  St.  John’s  Wood.  I,  thinking  Lydia  Fenny  was  the 
victim,  went  there  and  found  that  she  was  alive,  and  had 
lent  the  hat  to  her  mistress  last  Monday  night” 

44  Curious  thing  for  a maid  to  lend  her  mistress  clothes," 
said  Ellersby,  smiling.  44  It’s  generally  the  reverse.” 

“ I think  she  did  it  for  a disguise,  sir,”  explained  Dowker, 


A SUCCESSFUL  3EXP1BUOJOT, 


SI 


^because  Miss  Sarsehine  went;  to  Lord  Collision's  chambers 
in  Piccadilly/5 

« What  for  ? ” 

“ To  get  information  concerning  his  elopement  with  Lady 
Balscombe.” 

“ The  deuce  1 " said  Ellersby  in  astonishment  “ This  is 
becoming  interesting.” 

“ It  will  be  still  more  so  before  it’s  done.  I found  out 
from  Lydia  Fenny  that  Miss  Sarsehine  discovered  her  lover 
was  about  to  elope  with  Lady  Balscombe,  so  went  to  his 
chambers  to  prevent  it  She  arrived  too  late,  as  Lord 
CaHiston  had  gone  down  to  Shoreham  by  the  ten  minutes 
past  nine  train  from  London  Bridge  Station.  Instead  of 
Lord  Calliston  she  found  Mr.  Desmond,  his  cousin,  and  I 
suppose  he  told  her  she  was  too  late,  for  there  was  a row 
royal,  and  she  left  the  chambers  at  twelve  o'clock  or  there- 
abouts. Desmond  followed  shortly  afterwards,  and  that 
was  the  last  seen  of  her  alive,  as  far  as  I know.” 

“ Why  ? Didn't  Miss  Sarsehine  return  home  when 
she  discovered  Calliston  had  gone  off  with  Lady  Bals- 
combe ? ” 

“I  can't  tell  you,  sir;  nor  what  took  her  to  Jermyn 
Street,  unless  she  got  lost  in  the  fog,  or  there  was  another 

man  in  the  case.” 

“ Eh  ? Nonsense ! what  other  man  could  there  have 

been?” 

“ Well,”  said  Dowker  slowly,  “there  was  Mr.  Desmond.” 

“ Pshaw  I ” said  Ellersby,  springing  to  his  feet.  “ What 
rubbish  I I've  known  Myles  Desmond  all  my  life,  and  he's 
not  the  fellow  to  commit  such  a crime  1 ” 

“Yet  I understand  before  you  found  the  body  you  met 
Mr.  Desmond  coming  up  St.  James’s  Street  ? " 

Spencer  Ellersby  swung  round  in  a rage. 

u Confound  you  ! ''  he  said  in  an  angry  tone,  M do  you 
want  me  to  give  evidence  implicating  my  friend  ? M 

Dowker  did  not  lose  his  temper. 

“ No ; but  I want  to  know  what  took  place  between  you 

on  that  night” 

“Simply  nothing.  He  v/as  in  a hurry,  and  seemed 
annoyed  at  my  stopping  him,  but  that  was  only  natural  on 
such  a beastly  night.  I asked  him  to  call  on  me  here,  and 
also  asked  where  Calliston  was  ; he  told  me  yachting,  and 
then  be  went  off.  Nothing  more  took  place.” 

f 


THE  PICCADILLY  PUZZLE, 


u 

Humph ! ” said  Dowker  thoughtfully.  w It  was  curions 
he  should  have  been  there  at  the  time.” 

“ I don't  see  it  at  all.  If  you  ask  him,  IVe  no  doubt  he'll 
give  you  a good  account  of  himself.  Besides,  he  had  no 
motive  in  murdering  Miss  Sarschine — he  is  in  love  with 
Miss  Penfold.” 

“ I don't  say  he  deliberately  murdered  her,”  said  Dowke? 
quietly,  “but  there  might  have  been  an  accident.  You  see 
this  ? " taking  the  Malay  kriss  out  of  his  pocket  and  unwrap* 
mg  the  papers. 

“ Yes — a dagger.  Is  that  the ” said  Ellersby,  recoiling^ 

“No;  but  I shrewdly  suspect  it's  the  neighbour  to  it, 
Down  at  Cleopatra  Villa  there  were  a lot  of  these  sort  of 
things  hanging  against  the  wall,  arranged  in  a kind  of 
pattern.  One  side  of  the  pattern  was  incomplete,  and  I 
found  out  from  Miss  Fenny  that  Miss  Sarschine  had  taken 
one  of  the  daggers,  with  a view  to  trying  it  on  Calliston  if : 
he  did  not  give  up  his  design  of  eloping.  She  was  mad 
with  rage  or  she  would  never  have  thought  of  such  an  idea. 
Well — cannot  you  guess  what  follows  ? — she  has  the  dagger 
with  her  — doubtless  shows  it  to  Myles  Desmond  during 
her  stormy  interview  with  him,  and  leaves  the  house  in  a 
rage.  He  follows  her  to  try  and  take  such  a dangerous 
weapon  from  her— meets  her  in  Jermyn  Street — struggles  to 
get  it,  and  in  the  scuffle  wounds  herself ; consequently  she 
dies,  and  Myles  Desmond  keeps  quiet  lest  he  should  be 
accused  of  murder.” 

“ Seems  possible  enough,”  said  Ellersby,  resuming  hi» 
seat,  “ but  I doubt  its  truth.  However,  the  only  thing  to 
be  done  is  to  see  Desmond,  and  find  out  what  took  place 
at  Calliston's  rooms.  But  tell  me,  what  are  you  going  to  do 
with  that  other  dagger  ? ” 

M I want  to  find  out  if  it's  poisoned,”  said  Dowker,  hand- 
ling it  gingerly.  If  it  is,  it  will  show  that  the  other  weapon 
was  the  one  with  which  the  crime  was  committed.” 

“ Will  you  allow  me  to  look  at  it  ? " said  Ellersby,  stretch- 
ing out  his  hand. 

“ Certainly,”  replied  the  detective,  and  rising  to  his  feet* 
he  walked  across  to  Ellersby  to  give  him  the  dagger.  Un- 
luckily, however,  just  as  he  was  handing  it  to  him  he  stepped 
on  Pickles,  who  with  a growl  of  rage  made  a bite  at  his  leg. 
In  the  sudden  start  Dowker  let  go  the  dagger*  whkh  falil 
upon  Pickles'  back,  inflicting  a slight  wound 


a goddMsnfL  misERm:mT.  m 

The  detective  gave  a yell  as  the  bulldog  gripped  him,  but 
Ellersby  pulled  Pickles  off,  and  Dowker,  hobbling  to  a chair, 
sat  down  to  nurse  his  wounded  leg.  It  was  not  much  hurt, 
however,  as  Pickles  had  got  a mouthful  of  trousers  instead 

of  flesh. 

Alarmed  as  Dowker  had  been  by  the  accident,  he  was 
not  more  alarmed  than  Eflersby,  who  sprang  to  his  feet 
with  an  oath  and  rang  the  bell  sharply. 

“ Damn  it  1 ” he  said  furiously,  “ if  that  dagger  is  poisoned 
the  dog  will  die  I How  could  you  be  such  a fool  ?” 

“ You'd  be  the  same,  sir,  if  a devil  of  a dog  bit  you,”  said 
Dowker  sulkily,  not  at  all  displeased  at  having  the  question 
©f  rhe  dagger  tested  at  once.  “ I'm  very  sorry.” 

“ Sorry  be  hanged  1 ” said  Ellersby  savagely.  “ I wouldn't 
lose  that  dog  for  a hundred  pounds.  Here,”  to  the  waiter 
that  entered,  “ send  for  a doctor  at  once  — don't  lose  time, 
confound  you  I ” at  which  the  astonished  waiter  vanished 
promptly* 

Meanwhile  all  this  time  Pickles  was  lying  down  trying  to 
lick  his  wound,  and  evidently  wondering  what  all  the  fuss 
was  about  Dowker  watched  him  intently,  and  in  a short 
time  saw  the  dog  was  becoming  drowsy.  Ellersby  picked 
up  the  dagger  and  was  about  to  hurl  it  furiously  back  to 
Dowker,  when  the  detective  jumped  up  in  alarm. 

(i  For  God's  sake,  don't ! ” he  cried  ; “ I believe  it  is 
poisoned — look  ! ” 

Ellersby  looked,  and  saw  Pickles  trying  to  rise  to  his 
feet.  He  evidently  knew  something  was  wrong  with  him, 
for  he  commenced  to  whine,  and  a glaze  came  over  his  eyes. 
His  master  knelt  down  beside  him  and  dried  the  blood  off 
the  wound  with  his  handkerchief,  but  it  was  too  late.  The 
dog  opened  his  jaws  once  or  twice,  tried  to  rise  to  his  feet, 
staggered,  and  fell  over  on  his  side,  to  all  appearances  dead. 
On  seeing  this,  Ellersby  jumped  to  his  feet  and  began  to 
rage. 

“ The  devil  take  you  and  your  case  ! ” he  said  furiously  ; 
**  you’ve  killed  my  dog.” 

“ I'm  very  sorry,  sir,”  said  Dowker,  crossing  and  picking 
up  the  dagger,  “ it  was  an  accident.” 

“ An  expensive  accident  for  me,”  said  Ellersby,  bitterly  ; 
u at  all  events  it  proves  the  dagger  was  poisoned.” 

M Yes,”  said  Dowker  in  a delighted  tone,  u so  the  crime 
must  (have  been  committed  with  the  othet'  weapon,  for  if 


m tm  PICCADILLY  PUZZLE, 

one  was  poisoned,  it's  only  common  sense  to  assume  the 
other  was/1 

He  had  apparently  quite  forgotten  the  loss  sustained  by 
Ellersby,  for  there  was  no  doubt  the  bulldog  was  quite 

dead. 

That  gentleman  looked  at  him  in  disgust 
H Oh?  go  to  the  devil,”  he  said,  irritably,  “ and  thank  your 
stars  I don't  make  you  pay  for  this.” 

Dowker  murmured  something  about  an  accident,  then, 
slipping  the  fatal  dagger,  once  more  covered  in  paper,  into 
his  pocket,  he  took  his  departure.  On  his  way  down  he 
met  the  doctor  coming  up,  and  once  outside,  he  was  beside 
himself  with  jcy  at  having  proved  the  kriss  to  be  poisonous 
“ And  now,”  he  said,  “ I'll  call  and  see  Mr.  Desmond” 


CHAPTER  VIL 

A LITERARY  ASPIRANT. 

Primrose  Crescent  lies  just  off  Tottenham  Court  Road, 
and  though  a short  distance  away  the  great  thoroughfare  is 
full  of  noise  and  bustle,  everything  is  comparatively  silent 
in  this  crescent.  Milk-carts  are  the  most  frequent  vehicles, 
and  occasionally  a rakish-looking  hansom  makes  its  appear- 
ance, while  ragged  mendicants  sometimes  pay  the  neigh- 
bourhood a visit,  and  troll  out  lively  ditties  in  gin-cracked 
voices.  The  organ-grinder  is  not  an  unknown  personage 
either,  and  his  infernal  machine  may  frequently  be  heard 
playing  the  latest  music-hall  melodies  as  he  glances  round  in 
search  of  the  humble  brown. 

The  houses  are  somewhat  dismal ; tall — very  tall,  built  of 
dull-hued  red  brick,  with  staring  windows  and  little  iron 
balconies,  meant  for  show,  not  use.  No  Bloomsbury  Juliet 
can  lean  over  the  ornamental  ironwork  and  whisper  sweet 
nothings  to  Romeo;  if  she  did,  Juliet  would  forthwith  be 
precipitated  into  the  basement,  where  dwells  the  servant  of 
the  house  in  company  with  the  domestic  cat,  and  the  love- 
scene  would  end  within  the  prosaic  walls  of  a hospital. 

There  are  a good  many  boarding-houses  to  be  found  in  Prim- 
rose Crescent, where  City  clerks,  literary  aspirants  and  coming 
actors  are  to  be  found.  A touch  of  Bohemianism  pervades 
the  whole  street,  and  perhaps  in  the  future,  neat  tablets  let 
into  the  walls  of  the  houses  will  inform  posterity  th^i 


A LITERARY  ASPIRANT. 


Horatio  Muggins,  the  celebrated  poet,  and  Simon  MempSS- 
son,  the  famous  actor,  resided  there.  But  fame  is  as  pt 
far  from  the  quiet  street,  and  the  dwellers  therein  are  refill 
struggling  upward  or  downward  as  their  inclinations  f 

lead  them. 

Mrs.  Mulgy  was  the  landlady  of  one  of  these  boarding- 
houses, and  by  dint  of  hard  work  and  incessant  watchful- 
ness managed  to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door ; but,  alls, 
the  wolf  was  never  far  off,  and  it  took  all  Mrs.  Mulgy’s  time 
to  keep  him  at  his  distance.  The  basement  of  her  mansion 
was  devoted  to  the  kitchen,  the  presiding  deity  of  which 
was  a pale,  thin-looking  servant,  with  a hungry  eye  and  a de- 
precating manner,  who  answered  to  the  name  of  Rondalina, 
which  sounded  well  and  cost  nothing.  She  used  to  ascend 
from  the  kitchen  like  a ghost  from  the  tomb,  wander  about 
the  house  to  minister  to  the  wants  of  the  boarders,  and  then 
return  to  the  grave,  or  rather  the  kitchen,  once  mora  A 
rising  musician  occupied  the  ground-floor,  who  went  to  bed 
very  early  in  the  morning,  and  got  up  very  late  in  the  after- 
noon. He  was  writing  an  opera  which  was  to  make  his 
name,  but  meantime  devoted  his  spare  moments  to  instruct- 
ing small  children  in  the  art  of  music,  which  tried  his 
temper  greatly,  and  rendered  him  morose.  On  the  first 
floor  dwelt  Mr.  Myles  Desmond,  whose  occupation  was  that 
of  a journalist,  and, being  good-looking,  smartly  dressed  and 
well  connected,  was  Mrs.  Mulg/s  trump-card  in  the  way  of 
lodgers.  Above  was  the  habitation  of  a maiden  lady,  by 
name  Miss  Jostler,  who  called  herself  an  artist,  and  painted 
fire-screens,  Xmas  cards  and  such  like  things,  with  conven 
tional  landscapes  and  flowers.  In  the  attics  lived  several 
young  men  who,  having  no  money  and  plenty  of  spirits, 
formed  quite  a little  colony  of  Bohemians,  being  principally 
concerned  with  theatricals  and  literary  life. 

It  was  a queer  place  altogether,  and  the  individuals  were 
a kind  of  happy  family  except  that  they  did  not  mix  much 
with  one  another,  but  they  all  paid  their  bills  comparatively 
regular,  and  so  Mrs.  Mulgy  was  content. 

It  was  to  this  place  that  Mr.  Dowker  took  his  way 
the  day  after  his  interview  with  Ellersby.  As  he  had 
seen  Madame  R£ne,  Lydia  Fenny,  Mrs.  Povy,  and  Mr. 
Ellersby  all  in  one  day,  and  obtained  valuable  information 
from  each,  he  thought  he  would  defer  his  call  on  Mr. 
Desmond,  and  spent  the  night  in  arranging  all  the  evidence 


THE  PICCADILLY  PUZZLE. 


he  had  acquired  during  the  day.  The  result  was  very  satis* 
factory  to  himself,  and  he  wended  his  steps  towards  Mr. 
Desmond’s  abode  in  a very  happy  frame  of  mind. 

It  was  about  eleven  o’clock,  and  Myles  Desmond  sat  in 
his  sitting-room  scribbling  an  article  for  a society  journal, 
called  Asmodeus , published  for  the  express  purpose  of  un- 
roofing people’s  houses,  and  exposing  to  the  world  theii 
private  life.  Not  that  Desmond  did  such  a thing,  he  would 
have  scorned  to  violate  the  sanctity  of  private  life,  but  he 
wrote  for  all  kinds  of  magazines  and  papers,  and  as 
Asmodeus  paid  well,  he  now  and  then  wrote  them  a smart 
essay  on  existing  evils,  or  a cynical  social  story. 

He  was  a tall  young  man,  with  reddish  hair  and  mous- 
tache, a clever,  intellectual  face,  perhaps  not  actually  good- 
looking,  but  a face  that  attracted  attention,  and  when  he 
chose  to  exert  himself,  he  could  talk  excellently  on  the 
current  topics  of  the  day.  His  breakfast  lay  on  the  table, 
untouched,  he  having  only  swallowed  a cup  of  coffee,  and 
then  pushed  the  table-cloth  aside  to  make  room  for  his 
papers.  Dressed  in  an  old  smoking-suit,  he  leaned  one 
elbow  on  the  table  occasionally,  ran  his  fingers  through  'his 
hair  and  wrote  rapidly,  only  stopping  every  now  and  then  to 
relight  his  pipe.  He  was  engaged  in  writing  an  essay  oa 
* Cakes  and  Ale,”  and  satirising  the  vices  of  anew  school  of 
novelists,  who,  in  their  desire  to  become  pure  and  whole- 
some, had  gone  to  the  other  extreme  and  taken  all  the 
masculine  vigour  out  of  their  productions. 

Myles  looked  worn  and  haggard,  as  if  he  had  been  up 
all  night,  and  every  now  and  then  his  swift  pen  would  stop 
as  he  pondered  over  some  thought.  There  was  a ring  at 
the  bell  below,  but  he  took  no  notice.  This  was  followed 
shortly  afterwards  by  a knock  at  the  door,  and  Rondalina 
glided  in,  saying  a gentleman  wished  to  see  him. 

“Show him  in,”  said  Myles,  not  looking  up.  “Wonder 
who  it  can  be,”  he  muttered,  as  Rondalina  went  out “ hang 
those  fellows,  they  won’t  even  let  me  have  the  morning  to 
myself.” 

When  the  door  opened  he  glanced  up  and  saw  that  the 
new  comer  was  not  a friend,  but  a tall,  grey  man  whom  he 
did  not  know.  Myles  paused  with  his  pen  in  his  hand,  and 
waited  for  his  visitor  to  speak,  looking  at  him  interrogatively 
meanwhile. 

Mr.  Dowkcr — foi  of  course  it  was  fee— closed  the  doG? 


▲ UTEBABY  ASPIRANT. 


89 


carefully,  and  advancing  to  the  table,  introduced  himself  in 
two  words : 

“ Dowker — detective  I ” 

If  Myles  looked  haggard  before,  he  looked  still  more  §o 
now.  His  face  grew  pale,  and  he  shot  an  enquiring  glance 
at  his  visitor,  who  stood  looking  mournfully  at  him.  Then, 
throwing  down  his  pen  in  an  irritable  manner,  he  arose  to  his 

feet 

“ Well,  Mr.  Dowker?”  he  said  a little  nervously.  ^ You 

want  to  see  me.” 

“ I do— very  particularly,”  replied  Dowker,  coolly  taking 
a seat,  “and  believe  you  can  guess  what  it's  about.” 

Myles  drew  his  brows  togeth  r,  and  shook  his  head. 

“ No.  Fm  afraid  I can't,”  he  said  coldly. 

“The  Jermyn  Street  murder.” 

Myles  gave  a kind  of  gasp,  and  turned  away  towards  the 
mantel-piece,  ostensibly  to  fill  his  pipe,  but  in  reality  to 
conceal  his  agitation. 

“ Well,”  he  said  in  an  unsteady  voice,  “ and  what  have  I 
to  do  with  it?” 

“Thafs  what  I want  to  know,”  said  Dowker  impeiv 

turbably. 

Myles  Desmond  glanced  keenly  at  him,  lighted  his  pipe, 
resumed  his  seat  at  the  table,  and  leaning  his  elbows  there- 
on, stared  coolly  at  the  detective. 

“ You  speak  in  riddles,”  he  said  quietly. 

“ Humph  I ” answered  Dowker  meaningly,  “ perhaps  you 
can  guess  them.” 

“Not  till  you  explain  them  more  fully,”  retorted  Dea* 
mondL 

It  was  evidently  a duel  between  the  two  men,  and  they 
both  felt  it  to  be  so.  Dowker  wanted  to  find  out  something, 
which  Desmond  knew,  and  Desmond  on  his  side  was  equally 
determined  to  hold  his  tongue.  The  cleverest  man  would 
win  in  the  end,  so  Dowker  began  the  battle  at  once. 

“ The  woman  who  was  murdered  was  your  cousin's  mis* 
tress,  Lena  Sarschine.” 

“ Indeed  1 ” said  Desmond,  with  a start  of  surprise.  “ May 

I ask  how  you  know  ? * 

“That  is  not  the  point,”  retorted  Dowker  quickly.  “I 
Nave  satisfied  myself  as  to  the  identity  of  the  murdered 
woman— you  were  the  last  person  who  saw  her  alive.” 

“Is  that  mi* 


m 


THE  PICCADILLY  PUZZLE. 


44  Yes,  at  Lord  Calliston’s  chambers,  between  eleven  md 
twelve  o’clock  on  Monday  night” 

44  Who  says  I saw  her  ? ” 

44  Mrs.  Povy.” 

Myles  Desmond’s  lip  curled* 

“ You  seem  to  have  obtained  all  your  information  before- 
hand,” he  said  with  a sneer ; “ perhaps  you’ll  tell  me  what 
you  want  to  know  from  me  ? ” 

44  First — did  you  see  Miss  Sarschine  on  Monday  ? ” 

44  Yes  I I did,  but  in  the  afternoon,  not  at  night.” 

44  But  Mrs.  Povy  said  she  called  on  you  there,  on  Mon- 
day  night” 

44  Mrs.  Povy  is  mistaken,  I did  not  see  her.” 

44  Did  you  see  anyone  at  that  time  ? ” 

44  That’s  my  business.” 

44  Pardon  me,”  said  Dowker  ironically,  44  but  it’s  mine  also. 
You  had  better  answer  my  questions  or  you  may  find  your- 
self in  an  uncommonly  awkward  fix.” 

44  Oh ! so  you  mean  to  accuse  me  of  Lena  Sarschine’s 
murder.” 

44 That  depends,”  replied  Dowker  ambiguously;  44teH  me 
what  you  did  on  Monday  night.” 

Myles  thought  a moment,  and  seeing  his  perilous  position 
resolved  to  answer. 

44  I went  to  the  Frivolity  Theatre,  then  to  the  office  of  the 
newspaper,  Hash,  and  afterwards——” 

44  Well?” 

44 1 went  along  to  Lord  Caliiston’s  rooms,  about  half-past 
ten.” 

44 1 thought  so,  and  why  did  you  go  there  ? ” 

“Not  to  commit  a crime,”  retorted  Desmond  coolly, 
“but  only  to  arrange  some  papers  for  my  cousin — he  had 
gone  down  to  Shoreham  by  the  ten  minutes  past  nine  train.” 
44  Did  you  see  him  off  ? ” 

44  No.” 

•‘Then  how  did  you  know  he  went?” 

44  Because  he  said  he  was  going.” 

44  With  Lady  Balscombe  ? ” 

44 1 know  nothing  about  that,”  said  Desmond  coldly,  44  he 
went — as  far  as  I know — by  himself.  I was  at  his  chambers 
to  arrange  his  papers,  and  after  I had  done  so,  I left” 

45  Did  no  one  call  while  you  were  there  ? ” 

44  Yes,”  reluctantly. 


4 XXflBABir  ABtmjWL 


tl 


“A  lady?" 

“ Well,  a woman,"  evasively. 

“ Miss  Sarschine  ? ” 

11  No,  it  was  not  Miss  Sarschine,  that  I can  swear  ta* 

“ Then  who  was  it  ? * 

“ No  one  having  anything  to  do  with  this  case— a friend 
of  my  own." 

“ I must  know  the  name.® 

“I  refuse  to  tell  you,® 

Both  men  looked  steadily  at  one  another,  and  then 
Dowker  changed  the  subject 

“ Why  did  you  quarrel  with  your  friend  ? * 

“ That  k my  business.” 

“Oh  ! and  what  time  did  your  friend  leave  t* 

“ Shortly  after  twelve.” 

“ And  you  ? ” 

“Went  a few  minutes  afterwards," 

“ You  came  home  ? ® 

“ After  a time — yes.” 

“Where  did  you  go  in  the  meantime  ?* 

“ I refuse  to  answer.” 

“Then  I can  tell  you — down  St.  James*  Street 
Myles  Desmond  uttered  an  oath,  and  asked  sharply  % 
“Who  told  you  that?” 

“ No  one ; but  Mr.  Ellersby  met  you  coming  up  shortly 
after  two  o’clock.” 

“Yes,  I did  meet  him  there.” 

“ Why  did  you  not  go  straight  home  ? * 

Desmond  seemed  to  be  trying  to  think  of  something — -at 
last  with  an  effort  he  said  : 

“ I was  afraid  my  friend  might  get  lost  in  the  fog,  and 
followed  her  down  St.  James*  Street,  then  I lost  sight  of 
her,  and  after  a time  came  up  St  James*  Street,  where  I 
met  Ellersby.  I did  not  see  my  friend  again,  so  I came 
home.” 

“ You  did  not  see  your  friend  after  she  left  Lord  Callis- 
ton’s  chambers  ? ” 

“ No,  I did  not ! ” said  Desmond,  with  a sudden  flush. 

“ That’s  a lie,**  thought  Dowker,  eyeing  him  sharply,  then 
he  said  out  aloud : 

“You  have  answered  all  my  questions  except  the  most 
important  ones.” 

“ I have  answered  all  I intend  to  answer.” 


THE  PICCADILLY  PUZZLE* 


m 

u Then  you  refuse  to  give  me  the  name  of  the  womaa 
whom  you  saw  on  Monday  night  ? * 

“ Yes  ! ” 

“ Mrs.  Povy  is  certain  it  was  Miss  Sarschine.* 

“ As  I said  before,  Mrs.  Povy  is  mistaken." 
u Do  you  know  I can  arrest  you  on  suspicion?* 

™ You  have  no  grounds  to  go  upon.” 
fc  You  were  the  person  who  last  saw  the  deceased  alive.* 
“ Pardon  me.  I deny  that  I saw  the  deceased  at  all  on 
that  night” 

“ Mrs.  Povy-xan  prove  it* 

6t  Then  let  Mrs.  Povy  do  so.* 

Dowker  grew  angry — the  self-possession  and  coolness  cf 
this  young  man  annoyed  him — so  he  resolved  for  the  present 

to  temporise. 

“ Well,  well,  Mr.  Desmond,  I suppose  you  can  give  a good 
account  of  yourself  on  that  night  ? ” 

“ Certainly,  to  the  proper  authorities." 

M Good  morning,”  said  Dowker,  and  walked  out  of  the 
room.  When  he  got  into  the  street  he  strolled  along  a 
little  way,  thinking  deeply. 

“ Confound  him  ! He  knows  something,"  he  said  to 
himself,  “ and  refuses  to  tell.  I won't  lose  sight  of  him,  so 
I must  get  that  little  devil,  Flip,  to  look  after  him.  I'll 
look  him  up  now,  and  start  him  at  once." 

just  as  he  was  about  to  put  this  resolve  into  execution  he 
saw  the  door  of  the  house  he  had  just  left  open,  and  the 
servant  came  out  with  a piece  of  paper  in  her  hand,  which 
the  keen-eyed  detective  saw  was  a telegraph  form. 

“ Hullo  ! ” said  Dowker  to  himself.  #<  I wonder  if  Mi* 
Desmond's  sending  that  I'll  just  find  out" 

Rondalina  went  along  to  the  little  post-office  at  the  end 
of  the  street,  and  turned  in.  Shortly  afterwards,  Dowker 
followed,  and,  going  to  the  counter,  took  a telegraph  form 
as  if  to  send  a telegram.  The  girl  was  attending  to  some- 
one else,  and  Rondalina,  with  the  telegram  opened  out 
before  her,  was  waiting  her  turn.  Dowker  dexterously 
leaned  across  her  to  get  a pen,  and  glanced  rapidly  at  the 
telegram,  which  he  read  in  a moment : 

M Penfold, 

“c/.  Balscombe,  Park  Lane, 

* Meet  me  Marble  Arch  three  o'clock, 


A JUYEKILK  DETECTIVE.  m 

Dowker  sent  a fictitious  telegram,  and  then  strolled 

leisurely  out 

“ Hum  I”  he  said,  thoughtfully.  " That’s  the  girl  he 
wants  to  marry.  I wonder  what  are  his  reasons  for  seeing 
her  to-day.  Fd  like  to  overhear  their  conversation.  Can’t 
go  myself,  as  he  knows  me,  so  Flip  will  be  the  vety 

person." 

And  Dowker  departed  to  fmd  Flip. 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

A JUVENILE  DETECTIVE. 

Fli*  was  a small  dried-up  looking  boy,  bom  and  brought 
op  in  a London  slum.  He  had  no  parents — at  least,  none 
that  he  could  remember,  and  had  he  been  asked  how  he 
came  into  existence,  he  would  probably  have  answered 
Topsy-like  that  he  “growed.”  His  mother  and  father  had 
both  deserted  him  at  an  early  age,  giving  him  nothing  to 
remember  them  by,  not  even  a name,  so  he  was  thrown  on 
the  world  a squalling  brat.  Nevertheless,  he  managed  to 
get  along  somehow  to  the  age  of  fifteen,  at  which  period  of 
nis  life  Dowker  chanced  on  him,  and  his  prospects  began 
to  improve. 

Dowker,  underneath  his  drab  exterior,  concealed  a kind 
heart,  and,  having  met  Flip  one  night  in  the  rain,  had  taken 
compassion  on  the  miserable  morsel  of  humanity,  and  given 
him  a cup  of  coffee  to  warm  him  and  a roll  of  bread  to 
satisfy  his  hunger.  Flip  was  so  touched  at  this  disinterested 
kindness  that  he  attached  himself  with  dog-like  fidelity  to 
the  detective,  and  tried  to  serve  him  to  the  best  of  his 
•mall  ability. 

Having  had  to  fight  his  way  in  the  world,  Flip  had 
developed  a wonderful  sharpness  of  intellect  at  a very 
early  age,  and  Dowker  turned  this  hunger-educated  instinct 
to  good  account,  for  he  often  set  the  little  urchin  to  follow 
cabs,  run  messages,  and  do  other  small  matters  which  he 
required.  Flip  performed  all  these  duties  so  well  and 
promptly  that  Dowker  began  to  take  an  interest  in  him,  and 
»et  to  work  to  cultivate  this  stunted  flower  which  had 
sprung  up  amid  the  evil  weeds  of  the  slums.  He  had  a 
•Meting  place  appointed  with  Flip  in  Drury  Lane,  and. 


44  THE  PICCADILLY  PUZZLE. 

✓ 

whenever  he  wanted  him,  went  there  to  seek  him  out 
Flip  listened  to  his  patron's  instructions  carefully,  and,  having 
a wonderfully  tenacious  memory  of  an  uncivilized  kind,  he 
never  forgot  what  he  was  told.  In  return  for  services 
rendered,  Dowker  gave  him  a shilling  a week,  and  on  this 
small  sum  Flip  managed  to  exist,  with  occasional  help  from 
casual  passers-by. 

Dowker  did  not  give  him  an  education  or  dress  him  in 
decent  clothes,  as  he  thought  this  would  spoil  his  instinct 
and  appearance,  both  of  which  were  essentially  useful  in 
their  own  particular  way,  so  Flip  remained  ragged  and 
ignorant ; but  it  was  his  patron's  intention  to  give  him  a 
chance  of  rising  in  the  world  when  he  grew  older. 

He  had  no  name  except  Flip,  and  the  origin  of  that  was 
a mystery — no  clothes  except  a pair  of  baggy  trousers  and 
a tattered  shirt — and  his  home  was  a noisome  den  in  the 
purlieus  of  Drury  Lane.  His  language  was  bad,  so  was  his 
conduct ; yet  this  small  scrap  of  neglected  humanity  had  in 
him  the  makings  of  a useful  member  of  society.  There 
are  many  such  in  London,  but  the  Christians  of  England 
prefer  to  help  the  savages  v?ho  don't  want  them  to  the 
savages  who  do.  The  Chickaboo  Indians  have  existed  for 
centuries  without  morals,  religion,  or  clothes,  and  can  very 
well  exist  for  a longer  period  while  the  ragged  denizens  of 
the  most  civilized  city  in  the  world  are  being  relieved. 

Everyone  in  London  knows  Drury  Lane,  that  quaint, 
dirty  narrow  street  leading  to  the  Strand.  The  very  name 
conjures  up  the  shades  of  Siddons  and  Garrick,  and  the 
neighbourhood  is  sacred  to  the  Dramatic  Muse.  Who 
has  not  seen  that  weather-stained  picturesque  house  from 
the  window  of  which  gossipy  old  Pepys  saw  Mistress  Nell 
G wynne  leaning  out  and  watching  the  milkmaids  go  down 
to  the  Strand  Maypole  for  the  pleasant  old  English  dance. 
But,  alas  I Nell  and  the  milkmaids  with  their  quaint 
chronicler  have  long  since  passed  into  the  outer  darkness — 
even  the  Maypole  has  become  but  a memory,  yet  the  grim 
tumble  down  house  still  remains  in  the  dirty  lane. 

'Tis  a far  cry  from  Charles  to  Victoria,  and  the  merry 
milkmaids  with  their  clinking  pails  have  given  place  to 
frowsy  old  women,  battered-looking  young  ones,  and  a 
ragged  mixture  of  men  and  boys.  Not  an  unpicturesque 
scene,  this  dilapidated-looking  crowd,  slouching  over  the 
rugged  stones,  and  an  artist  would  have  stopped . and 


A JUVENILE  DETECTXVB,  iB 

admired  them,  bat  Dowfcer  was  not  an  artist,  so  looted  not 
for  scenic  effect,  but  for  Flip. 

Flip  was  sitting  considering  at  the  edge  of  the  pave- 
ment with  his  feet,  for  the  sake  of  coolness,  in  the  gutter, 
md  his  eyes  hxed  on  three  dirty  pennies  lying  in  his  own 
dirty  brown  palm. 

“’Am,”  said  Flip,  deliberating  over  the  expenditure  of 
his  fortune.  “'Am  an’  bread,  an’  a swig  o’  beer- — my  h’eye, 
wot  a tir^k  h’out  I’ll  ’ave,  ’Fire/’  suddenly,  as  Dowker 
touched  him  with  his  foot,  “what  the  blazes  are  you 
kicking  ? Why  I’m  blest  if  ’taint  the  guv’nor.” 

He  jumped  to  his  feet,  and  slipped  the  pennies  into  the 
waistband  of  his  trousers,  which  did  duty  with  him  for  a 
pocket 

“Wot’s  h’up,  guv’nor/’  he  asked  with  a leer.  Flip’s  leer 
was  not  pleasant  — ■ it  had  such  an  unholy  appearance, 
“ more  larks — my  h’eye,  I thort  Fd  never  twig  you  agin. 
*Ave  you  bin  h’over  the  gar  din -wall  arter  a prig  ? ” 

“ Hold  your  tongue/’  said  Dowker  sharply.  “ I want 
you  to  do  something  for  me — are  you  hungry  ? ” 

“Not  much/’  said  Flip  coolly,  “but  I don’t  mind  a ’am 
sanVich.” 

Dowker  cast  a sharp  glance  at.  the  ragged  little  figure 
walking  beside  him. 

41  Where  have  you  been  getting  money  ? ” he  asked. 

41  My  h’eye,  it’s  a rigler  game/’  said  Flip,  rubbing  his 
grimy  hands  together,  as  they  turned  into  a ham  and  beef 
shop,  “ I’ll  tell  yer  all — ’am  I’ll  *ave,  an’  bread.” 

Being  supplied  with  these  luxuries  at  the  expense  of 
Dowker,  Flip  stuffed  his  mouth  with  a liberal  portion  and 
then  began  to  talk. 

“ Larst  Monday/’  he  began, 

. “Ha,”  said  Dowker,  suddenly  recollecting  the  date  of 
the  murder,  “yesterday?” 

“No,  the  Monday  afore/*  said  Flip,  “it  were  at  nite, 
h’awful  foggy,  my  h’eye,  a rigler  corker  it  were,  I was  as 
hingry  as  a bloomin’  tyke  an’  couldn’t  find  you  nohow,  so 
fe’up  I goes  to  Soho  to  see  h’old  jem  Mux,  you  know’s  ’im, 
gtav’nor,  the  cove  as  keeps  the  4 Pink  ’Un.’  ” 

“Yes,  the  sporting  pub,”  replied  Dowker. 

“Same  game/5  said  Flip,  “’e  gives  me  sumat  to  eat 
when  I arsks  it,  so  I goes  h’up  to  cadge  some  wictuals, 
I gits  cold  meat,  my  h’eye,  prime,  an’  bread  an’  beer,  m 


THE  PICCADILLY  PUZZIA 


#§ 

when  I *ad  copped  the  grub,  I was  a-gittin*  away  h’out  et: 
the  bar  when  a swell  cove  comes  in — lor’  what  a swell — fur 
coat  an’  a shiny  ’at.  Ses  ’e  to  the  gal,  ses  ’e,  1 Is  that  ’ere* , 
’sparrin’ cornin’ orf  this  evenin’?’  ‘Yes,’  says  she,  ‘in  the 
drorin’-room.’  ‘ Right  you  h’are,’  ses  ’e,  ‘ I want  to  see  it 
afore  I leave  Hengland.  I was  a-goin’  down  to  my  yotsh/ 
ses  ’e,  ‘ but  I’ll  put  it  orf  till  to-morrow  as  I wants  to  see 
this  set  to,’ then  ’e  twigs  me  an’ ses  ’e,  ‘Are  you  cold?* 
‘Yes,’ ses  I.  ‘’Ungry?’  ‘Not  much,’  ses  I.  ‘’Ere’s  some  tin 
for  you,  you  pore  little  devil,’  an’  I’m  blessed  if  ’e  didn’t 
tip  me  a sov,  so  I’ve  bin  livin’  like  a dook  on  it  since  I 
sawr  you — nice  game,  ain’t  it,  guv’nor  ? ” 

During  this  recital  Dowker  had  not  paid  much  attention 
till  Flip  spoke  of  the  yacht,  then  he  suddenly  pricked  up 
his  ears,  for  it  dawned  on  him  that  this  unknown  benefactor 
of  Flip’s  might  possibly  be  Lord  Calliston. 

“ Monday  night  he  was  going  out  of  town,”  murmured 
Dowker,  “ but  he  was  always  a sporting  blade,  so  perhaps 
he  stopped  for  this  fight  and  then  went  down  next  morning. 

I wonder  where  he  met  Lady  Bal-scombe.  Ah,  well,  it’s 
nothing  to  do  with  the  murder  at  all  events;  but  I’d  like 
to  know  if  he  really  did  leave  town  on  the  night” 

Then  he  turned  to  Flip. 

“ Did  the  swell  see  Jem  Mux  ? ” he  asked  sharply. 

“Rather,”  said  Flip,  “an’  Jem  ’e  called  ’im  my  lord,  so 

must  ’ave  been  a bloomin’  blindin’  toff.” 

“ My  lord,”  repeated  Dowker  thoughtfully.  “ Oh  ! nc 
doubt  it  was  Lord  Calliston.  I wonder  if  he’s  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  the  death  of  his  mistress,  it’s  curious  it' 
he  stopped  in  town  all  night  that  he  didn’t  go  back  to  hia 
chambers.  About  what  time  was  this  ? ” he  asked  aluud. 

“ About  nine,”  said  Flip  promptly,  “ or  harf-parst.” 

“ Nine,”  echoed  Dowker ; “ then  in  that  case  he  must 
have  stayed  in  town  all  night,  as  the  last  train  to  Shoreham 
is  about  half-past.  I’ll  look  into  this  business,  but  mean- 
time I want  to  find  out  Desmond’s  little  game.” 

Flip  had  now  finished  his  meal  and  was  waiting  im- 
patiently for  instructions  from  his  chief. 

“ Wot’s  h’up,  guv’nor  ? ” he  asked,  his  black  beady  eyei 
fixed  on  the  detective. 

Dowker  glanced  at  his  watch. 

“ It’s  about  two,”  he  said,  replacing  it,  “ and  I want  you 
to  meet  me  at  the  Marble  Arch  ~ ""arter  to  three.* 


m&  LANGUA0IC  Q'B  Lom 


m 

• Wot  for?* 

11  To  follow  a lady  and  gentleman  and  overhear  what 
they  say/1  said  Dowker ; “ 111  show  you  whom  I mean. 
Don’t  lose  a word  of  their  conversation  and  then  repeat  it 

all  to  me.* 

f<  I’m  fly,”  said  Flip  with  a wink,  and  then  this  curiously 
assorted  pair  departed,  Dowker  to  his  office  for  a few 
minutes,  and  Flip  to  wend  his  way  to  the  rendezvous' at  the 

Marble  Arch. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  LANGUAGE  OF  LOVE. 

May  Penfold  was  a very  pretty  girl,  tall  and  fair-haire  % 
with  a pair  of  merry  blue  eyes,  and  a charming  complexion. 
Her  parents  died  when  she  was  young  and  left  her  to  the 
guardianship  of  Sir  Rupert  Balscombe,  who  certainly  ful- 
filled his  trust  admirably.  He  had  her  well  educated  both 
intellectually  and  physically,  so  when  she  made  her  debut  in 
London  Society  she  was  much  admired.  An  accomplished 
musician  and  linguist,  a daring  horse-woman  and  a kindly 
disposition,  it  was  no  wonder  that  she  was  much  sought 
after;  but  when  added  to  these  gifts  it  was  also  discovered 
that  she  possessed  twenty  thousand  a year  in  her  own 
right,  she  became  the  catch  of  the  season,  and  many  were 
the  attempts  made  by  hard-up  scions  of  noble  houses  to 
secure  her  hand  in  marriage. 

But  alas,  for  the  contrary  disposition  of  womankind,  she 
would  have  none  of  the  gilded  youth  but  fixed  her  affections 
on  Myles  Desmond,  a poor  Irish  gentleman,  with  nothing 
to  recommend  him  but  a handsome  face,  a clever  brain  and 
a witty  tongue.  In  vain  Lord  Calliston  asked  her  to  be 
feis  wife,  she  coolly  refused  him,  telling  the  astonished 
nobleman  that  neither  his  morals  nor  his  manners  were  to 
her  liking,  and  informed  Sir  Rupert  that  she  intended  to 
marry  Myles  Desmond. 

The  baronet  was  furious  at  this  declaration,  and  as  May 
was  under  age  and  could  not  marry  without  her  guardian's 
consent,  he  forbad  Myles  the  house  and  ordered  his  ward 
not  to  speak  to  him.  But  see  how  the  duplicity  of  love 
can  circumvent  the  watchfulness  of  guardians.  May  and 
Myles  met  secretly  in  the  Park,  at  garden  parties,  and  at 
balls,  whenever  they  chose,  and  so  cleverly  did  they  manage 


THE  PICCADILLY  PUZZLE, 


m 

their  meetings  that  Sir  Rupert  never  for  a moment  su# 
pected  the  truth.  He  wanted  his  ward  to  marry  Calliston* 
but  when  that  fickle  young  man  ran  off  with  Lady  Balsr 
combe  he  changed  his  tune  altogether,  and  had  May  been 
clever  enough  to  have  taken  advantage  of  his  dismay,  he 
would  doubtless  have  consented  to  her  union  with  Myles 
despite  the  disadvantages  of  the  match.  Sir  Rupert  was 
paralysed  at  the  scandal  caused  by  his  wife’s  elopement 
He  was  deeply  in  love  with  her,  and  having  known 
Calliston  from  his  boyhood  it  had  never  entered  his  head 
that  such  a thing  could  happen.  He  was  a very  proud 
man,  and  when  he  discovered  the  elopement  he  shut 
himself  up  in  his  library,  refusing  to  see  anyone.  The 
guilty  pair  had  gone  to  the  Azores,  and  knowing  that  sooner 
©r  later  they  would  return  to  England,  he  awaited  their 
coming  with  the  intention  of  divorcing  his  treacherous  wife 
Mid  punishing  her  seducer. 

Sir  Rupert  having  taken  up  this  position,  May  was  left 
a good  deal  to  herself,  and  as  the  whole  affair  caused  such 
a scandal  she,  as  a ward  of  Balscombe’s,  refused  to  go  out 
into  society  until  some  definite  settlement  of  the  matter 
had  been  arrived  at.  She  had  written  several  times  to 
Myles  asking  him  to  see  her,  but  on  some  plea  or  another 
he  had  alway  refused  to  come,  much  to  her  bewilderment. 
When  she  received  his  telegram  asking  her  to  meet  him 
at  the  Marble  Arch,  she  was  delighted ; and  slipping  out 
of  the  house  in  Park  Lane,  went  to  keep  her  appointment. 

At  this  time  of  the  year  there  were  comparatively  few 
people  in  town  who  knew  her;  nevertheless,  for  the  sake 
of  safety,  she  dressed  herself  plainly  in  a dark  dress  and 
wore  a thick  veil  which  concealed  her  face.  Thus  dis- 
guised she  had  no  fear  of  being  recognised,  and  arrived  at 
the  rendezvous  about  five  minutes  past  three  o’clock.  There 
she  found  Myles  waiting  for  her  and  they  walked  together 
into  the  Park,  feeling  perfectly  secure  from  interruption  or 
detection.  But  they  did  not  know  that  they  were  being 
shadowed  by  a small  ragged  boy  who  was  apparently  playing 
idly  about  them. 

Dowker  recognising  Myles  pointed  him  out  to  Flip  and 
departed  at  once,  lest  he  should  by  seen  by  Desmond,  so 
when  Flip  saw  May  join  the  young  Irishman  he  knew  it 
was  the  couple  whose  conversation  he  was  there  to  over 
keaj  and  followed  them  promptly. 


IBB  IJLKOTAGE  OF  LQ Y& 


Mytas  and  Miss  Penfold  walked  a short  distance  into  tbse 
Park  and  then  seated  themselves  for  a while-two  ordinary 
locking  figures  not  calculated  to  attract  much  notice,  for, 
the  day  being  cold,  Myles  was  muffled  up  in  a large  ulster 
and  May’s  dress,  as  previously  noticed,  was  not  con- 
spicuous. 

Flip  sat  down  on  the  grass  at  the  back  of  them,  appa- 
rently engaged  in  spelling  out  a dirty  bit  of  newspaper,  but 
in  reality  drinking  in  every  word  the  lovers  uttered. 

They  were  continuing  a conversation  begun  when  they 
first  met 

" Does  this  man  suspect  you  ? ” said  May,  evidently 
referring  to  Dowker. 

M Fm  afraid  so,”  he  replied  gloomily,  “ and  I cannot 
open  my  mouth  to  defend  myself.” 

" Why?” 

u Because  my  only  defence  would  be  an  explanation  of 
the  events  of  that  night,  and  I cannot  explain.” 

“Why  not  ?” 

He  remained  silent,  at  which  the  girl  turned  pale, 

u Is  there  any  reason — strong  reason  ? ” 

* Yes.  ” 

“ Is  that  reason — a woman  ? * 

Myles  bowed  his  head. 

Miss  Penfold  grew  a shade  paler  and  laughed  bitterly. 

“ A pleasant  reason  to  give  me,”  she  said,  with  a sneer. 
**  I have  given  up  all  else  for  your  sake,  because  I thought 
you  loved  me,  and  you— you — talk  of  another  woman  to 

me. 

“ This  is  nonsense,”  he  answered  impatiently.  “ There 
is  no  love  in  the  case ; it  simply  involves  the  breaking  of  a 
promise  given  to  a woman,  and  you  would  be  the  last  to 
ask  me  to  do  that.  Can  you  not  believe  in  my  honour  ? ” 

May  looked  at  him  doubtfully. 

“Can  I believe  in  any  man’s  honour?”  she  replied 
cadly, 

w That  depends  who  the  man  is,”  answered  Myles  quietly. 
M It  is  simply  a case  of  Lovelace  over  again  : 

1 I would  not  love  thee  dear  so  much, 

Loved  I not  honour  more.' 

It  is  absurd — quixotic — ridiculous— to  talk  about  honour 
In  these,  days,  I grant  you,  but  unfortunately  I inherit  loyal 

4 


5 


TEE  PICCADILLY  PUZZLE, 

Blood,  and — well,  I must  ask  you  to  trust  me  till  I caa 

speak.” 

r And  you  will  speak  ? ” 

u Yes ; if  it  comes  to  the  worst,”  he  replied  with  a slight 

shiver. 

The  girl  gave  him  her  hand,  which  he  took  and  pressed 
slightly.  So  thus,  mutely,  they  made  up  their  quarrel. 

All  the  foregoing  conversation  about  honour  was  Greek 
to  Flip,  who,  after  some  cogitation,  came  to  the  conclusion 
it  was  a scene  out  of  a play.  But  now  they  began  to  talk 
on  h subject  more  suited  to  his  comprehension. 

“ May,”  said  Myles,  “ I want  you  to  tell  me  all  that  Lady 
Balscombe  did  on — on  that  night” 

“ The  night  when  she  eloped  ? * 

“Yes.” 

“ Let  me  see,”  said  May,  knitting  her  pretty  brows*  M -m 
went  to  a ball — to  Lady  Kerstoke's.” 

“ At  what  time  ? ” 

“ Between  nine  and  ten.” 

“ And  what  time  did  you  leave  ? * 

“ Very  early — about  half  past  ten ; in  fact,  we  were  there 
only  a few  minutes.  Lady  Balscombe  said  she  had  a head- 
ache and  went  home.  You  know  our  house  is  only  a few 
doors  away.  I expect  she  only  went  there  to  avert  suspicion 
as  to  her  elopement.” 

“ What  happened  when  she  came  home  ? ” 

“ There  was  a woman  waiting  to  see  her  in  her 
boudoir.” 

“ A woman  ? ” repeated  Desmond ; “ who  was  she  ? ” 

“ I don't  know  ; I didn't  even  see  her.  She  saw  Lady 
Balscombe  and  then  left  the  house,  between  eleven  and 

twelve.” 

“ How  do  you  know  ? ” 

“ My  maid  told  me.” 

“ And  what  time  did  Lady  Balscombe  leave  ? * 

“ I don't  know.  I did  not  see  her  again  that  night  She 
went  to  bed  because  of  her  headache,  and,  I suppose,  de- 
parted early  in  the  morning  to  catch  the  train  to  Shore- 

ham.” 

“ Where  was  Sir  Rupert  all  this  time  ? ” 

“ He  had  been  down  in  Berkshire,  but  arrived  some 
time  before  twelve — he  and  Lady  Balscombe  had  quar- 
relled lately  and  occupied  different  rooms.  BesidesP  he 


VEX  LAkmA OB  OF  WV Jfc 


$1 

mot  off  to  his  dub  on  arriving  in  town,  so  he  would  not 
know  of  her  flight  till  the  morning/ 

44  Did  she  leave  a letter  for  him  ? ” 

“ I suppose  so ; but  why  do  you  ask  all  these  ques- 
tions ? * 

44  Because  I want  to  save  my  neck,  if  possible.  The 
woman  who  was  murdered  is  said  to  be  Lena  Sarschine, 
whom  I saw  during  the  day.  I saw  a woman  in  Calliston’s 
rooms  on  the  same  night,  whom  the  detective  thinks  was 
the  same  person.  Now,  between  the  time  I left  the  cham- 
bers and  the  time  I met  Spencer  Ellersby  I was  wandering 
about  the  streets  and,  as  I spoke  to  no  one,  I cannot  prove 
an  alibi.  Ellersby  met  me  coming  up  St.  James'  Street, 
and  the  scene  of  the  crime  was  not  far  off,  so,  if  I am 
arrested,  circumstances  will  tell  very  hard  against  me.  No- 
body will  believe  my  assertion  that  I did  not  see  the  dead 
woman  that  night,  and  I cannot  prove  it  without  breaking 
my  promise/ 

44 1 see  what  you  mean,  but  what  has  Lady  Baiscombe  to 

do  with  it?* 

44  Simply  this.  I am  anxious  to  find  out  if  Calliston 
really  left  town  on  that  night,  because  I want  to  know  if  he 
had  anything  to  do  with  the  death  of  his  mistress.  He  left 
his  chambers  to  catch  the  ten  minutes  past  nine  train  from 
London  Bridge;  but  did  he  catch  it  ? I think  not,  because  be 
would  not  have  left  town  without  Lady  Baiscombe,  and 
from  your  own  showing,  she  did  not  leave  her  house  till 
early  on  Tuesday  morning.  So  I think  Calliston  must 
have  remained  in  town  at  some  hotel,  where  she  joined 
him,  and  they  went  down  to  Shoreham  by  the  first  train  in 
the  morning/ 

44  But  you  don't  think  Calliston  killed  this  woman  ? * 
MNo,  I don't  think  so,*  he  answered  thoughtfully.  U1 
really  don't  think  so,  but  I would  like  to  have  all  his  move- 
ments on  that  night  accounted  for.  As  for  myself,  I am  in 
a very  awkward  position,  for,  if  arrested,  I cannot  extricate 
myself  from  it  till  Calliston  returns/ 

“Why?" 

44  Because  till  his  yacht  comes  back  I cannot  prove  say 
innocence." 

44  But  you  are  innocent  ? * 

44  Yes ; can  you  doubt  me  ? * 
w I was  certain  of  it" 


ms  PICCADILLY  PUZZML 


m 

u E hope  the  jury  of  twelve  good  and  lawful  men  wffl  be 
as  certain,”  he  replied  grimly,  as  they  walked  away. 

Flip  followed  them  at  a distance,  but  only  caught  scraps 
of  conversation  which  seemed  to  him  to  be  about  trivial 
matters.  So,  with  all  the  conversation  he  had  heard  in  the 
Park  indelibly  inscribed  on  his  brain,  Flip  darted  away,  to 
give  his  patron  an  accurate  report  and  thus  add  another 
link  to  the  chain  which  was  gradually  encircling  the  mur- 
derer of  Lena  Sarschine. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  MISSING  LINK. 

Flip,  having  a wonderfully  tenacious  memory,  did  not  forget 
the  conversation  he  had  overheard  between  Myles  and  Miss 
Penfold ; so  going  to  his  patron's  office,  he  repeated  it  in 
due  course  to  Dowker.  The  result  was  that  the  detective 
became  much  exercised  in  his  mind  over  the  whole  affair. 
He  could  not  understand  Desmond's  refusal  to  tell  the  name 
of  the  woman  he  saw  on  the  night  of  the  murder.  True, 
Desmond  denied  it  was  Lena  Sarschine,  but  then  his  denial 
went  for  nothing,  as  he  would  do  so  to  save  himself  from 
suspicion.  Mrs.  Povy  said  Lena  Sarschine  had  been  there 
between  eleven  and  twelve,  and  it  was  unlikely  she  would  be 
wrong,  seeing  how  well  acquainted  she  was  with  the  appear- 
ance of  the  dead  woman.  But  then,  judging  from  the  drift 
of  Desmond's  remarks,  his  refusal  to  speak  was  dictated  by  a 
desire  to  screen  the  honour  of  a woman.  If  so,  it  could  not 
have  been  Lena  Sarschine,  for  she  had  no  honour  to  lose, 
and  his  refusal  to  speak  would  be  a piece  of  Quixotism, 
which  he,  as  a man  of  the  world,  would  be  one  of  the  first  to 
recognize.  At  this  moment,  a sudden  thought  flashed 
across  Dowker's  mind — could  it  have  been  Lady  Balscombe 
herself  who  had  the  interview  with  Desmond  ? Here,  in- 
deed, would  be  a strong  motive  for  Desmond  to  keep 
silence,  as  the  visit  of  a lady  to  a bachelor’s  rooms  at  night 
would  endanger  her  reputation.  Lady  Balscombe  had,  it  is 
true,  flung  reputation  to  the  winds,  but  on  Monday  night  it 
would  not  have  been  too  late  to  save  her,  so  if  she  had  seen 
Desmond,  he  might  have  tried  to  persuade  her  to  give  up 
the  elopement,  and  failed. 

“ I think  I see  it  all,”  said  Dowker,  musingly.  “ She  was 
to  have  met  Lord  Calliston  on  that  night  to  go  down  by 
the  nine  train,  but  went  to  the  ball  first  tp  avoid  suspicion, 


ffl&A.  MISSING  LINK  m 

He  got  tired  of  waiting  for  her,  and  went  off  to  8 The  Pink 
fUn.’  She  would  have  let  him  know  her  plans  by  telegram, 
and  called  at  his  rooms  after  the  ball  to  explain.  He  was 
away  and  did  net  get  the  telegram,  so  when  she  arrived  at 
the  rooms  she  found  Desmond.  He  tried  to  persuade  her 
to  go  back ; she  refuses,  and  after  some  angry  words  goes 
out  in  a rage,  stays  all  night  somewhere,  and  goes  down  to 
Shoreham  in  the  morning,  but  all  this  does  not  explain 
Lena  Sarschine’s  death.  It  can’t  be  possible  that  Lady 
Balscombe  killed  her— no,  it  can’t  be  that — there  is  no  con- 
nection between  the  two.” 

He  ran  over  in  his  mind  the  principal  items  of  the  con- 
versation as  reported  by  Flip,  and  his  thoughts  took  a new 

turn. 

“ Lady  Balscombe  did  not  leave  her  house  in  Park  Lane 
till  after  midnight,  so  that  would  not  have  given  her  time  to 
be  at  Lord  Calliston’s  chambers  and  have  an  interview  with 
Desmond,  therefore  it  cannot  have  been  her.  I wish  I 
could  find  out  the  name  of  the  woman  who  saw  Desmond, 
and  I’d  also  like  to  know  the  name  of  the  woman  who  saw 
Lady  Balscombe  on  that  n^ght,  and  discover  what  was  the 
exact  time  Lady  Balscombe  left  the  house — let  me  see.” 

He  took  out  his  note-book,  and  wrote  the  following 
memoranda : 

1.  To  find  cut  name  of  woman  who  called  at  Calliston’s 
chambers  on  Monday  (night  of  murder)  between  eleven  md 
twelve. 

This  could  only  be  proved  by  Myles  Desmond 
himself,  as  Mrs.  Poyy  asserted  it  was  Lena  Sarschine,  and 
Desmond  denied  it ; therefore  there  was  a dead-lock— 
affirmation  and  denial.  v 

Memo.—' To  see  Desmond  and  find  out  name  erf 
msitor. 

2.  To  ascertain  appearance  and,  if  possible,  name  of 
woman  who  visited  Lady  Balscombe  on  night  of  murder,  as 
it  might  possibly  have  some  bearing  on  case. 

A servant  in  Lady  Balscombe’s  house  could  probably 
furnish  this  information. 

Memo. — To  try  and  find  out  said  servant 

3.  To  discover  exact  time  Lady  Balscombe  left  her  house 
on  Tuesday  morning,  also  ascertain  subsequent  movements. 
This  would  also  have  to  be  discovered  through  a servant — - 
as  to  finding  out  subsequent  movements,  discover,  if  possibly 


M TB3  KOCADILLY  TUIUM. 

tram  the  left  London  by,  and  what  she  did  between  time  of 
i caving  her  house  and  leaving  by  train. 

Memo. — These  discoveries  must  be  left  to  future  develop- 
ments of  case. 

4.  To  find  out  what  has  become  of  missing  dagger. 

Possibly  this  might  be  discovered  in  Desmond’s  posses- 
sion. 

Mem. — Search  his  room — secretly — employ  agent — say 

Flip. 

5.  To  search  out  early  life  of  Lena  Sarschine  f 

Might  be  discovered  in  a small  measure  from  Lydia 
Fenny,  who,  being  confidential  maid,  might  possibly  have 
gathered  information  from  casual  remarks* 

Mem.—To  see  Lydia  Fenny. 

Having  thus  arranged  his  plan  of  action  satisfactorily, 
Dowker  turned  his  attention  to  Number  four  of  his  memo- 
randa, and  proceeded  to  tell  Flip  what  he  wanted  him  to 

“ You  see  this  ? * asked  Dowker,  showing  Flip  the 
dagger  he  had  abstracted  from  Cleopatra  Villa. 

Flip  intimated  by  a vigorous  nod  of  his  head  that  he  did. 

w IVe  got  an  idea,*  explained  Dowker  smoothly,  “ that 
a dagger  very  similar  to  this  is  to  be  found  in  the  posses- 
sion of  Mr.  Myles  Desmond,  the  gentleman  you  saw  to-day, 
so  I want  you  by  some  means  to  get  into  his  rooms  and  find 
^iit  if  it’s  there.* 

Flip  screwed  his  face  into  a look  of  profound  thought, 
rad  then  smiled  in  a satisfied  manner. 

“ 111.  do  it,  Guv’nor,”  he  said,  sagaciously. 

u How?*  asked  Dowker,  curious  to  learn  how  this 
juvenile  detective  proposed  to  deal  with  the  problem. 

“ 111  doss  on  his  doorstep  to-night,*  said  Flip,  " and 
he  comes  ’ome  do  a € perish ’ — you  knows* — in  an 
ixpianatory  tone — “say  Fm  dyin'  for  victuals — ’ell  take 
me  inside,  and  when  I gits  there  you  leave  me  alone, 
guv’ nor,  Fm  fly  I * 

“Well,  you  can  manage  it  as  you  please,*  said  Dowker. 
“ But  don’t  you  prick  yourself  with  it,  as  it’s  poisoned,  and 
Flip,  if  you  bring  me  this  dagger  without  him  knowing  about 
it,  111  give  you  half  a sov.” 

“ Done,  Guv’nor  ! "said  Flip,  joyfully,  and  bidding  adieu 
to  his  patron,  went  off  to  get  ftojmething  to  eat  and  prepare 
his  plan  of  action. 


mm  MisstNo 


m 

ft  was  BdW  aboilt  six  o'clock  and  very  dark,  the  sky 
being  overcast  with  clouds.  Soon  it  began  to  rain  steadily, 
and  the  streets  became  sloppy  and  dismal.  Flip  drew  his 
?ags  round  him,  shivered  a little  in  a professional  manner, 
and  then,  going  off  to  a cook-shop  he  patronised  in  Drury 
Lane,  had  a hunch  of  bread  and  a steaming  cup  of  coffee 
for  a small  sum. 

Being  thus  prepared  for  his  work,  Flip  wiped  his  mouth, 
and,  sallying  forth  into  the  dirty  Lane,  took  his  way  up  r o 
Bloomsbury,  combining  business  with  pleasure  by  begging  on 
the  * oad. 

Turning  into  Primrose  Crescent,  he  soon  found  the  house 
he  wanted,  and  curling  himself  up  on  the  doorstep,  waited 
pahently  for  chance  to  deliver  Myles  into  his  designing 
harids. 

The  rain  continued  to  pour  down  steadily,  and  as  it  vrss 
now  dark  Flip  could  see  the  windows  all  along  the  street 
beirg  lighted  up.  The  gas-lamps  also  shone  brightly  th  ough 
the  vain,  and  were  reflected  in  dull,  blurred  splashes  01  the 
paver  ients.  Occasionally  a gentleman  would  hurry  >ast 
with  his  umbrella  up,  and  a ragged  tramp  would  slouch  ai  >ng 
singing  a dismal  ditty.  It  was  dreary  waiting,  but  Flip  was 
used  to  such  times,  and  sat  quite  contented,  thinking  how 
he  could  lay  out  his  promised  half-sovereign  to  the  best 
advantage,  till  his  quick  ear  caught  the  sound  of  footsteps 
inside. 

This  was  his  cue,  so  he  immediately  lay  down  on  the  wet 
•tones,  and  commenced  to  moan  dismally.  Myles  opened 
the  door,  and  would  have  stumbled  over  him,  for  he  was 
fight  in  front  of  the  entrance  after  the  fashion  of  the  clown 
Vi  the  pantomime,  only  he  caught  sight  of  him  in  time. 

e<  Hullo,”  said  Myles  crossly,  “ what  the  deuce  ks  the 
wvaiter  ? * 

Flip  made  no  reply  to  this,  but  groaned  with  renewed 
vigour,  upon  which  Desmond,  who  was  a kind-hearted  man, 
bent  down  and  touched  the  ragged  little  figure. 

w 4re  you  ill  ? " he  asked  gently. 

# •*  Oh,  lor* — awful — my  insides,”  groaned  Flip  pressing  his 
dirty  hands  on  his  stomach.  “ Ain't  'ad  a bit  for  days." 

Myles  was  doubtful  as  to  the  genuineness  of  this  case  as 
he  knew  how  deceptive  tramps  are,  but  as  the  poor  Lad  did 
aeem  in  pain,  and  it  was  raining  heavily,  he  determined  to 
give  him  the  benefit  of  the  doubt 


me  HooABiLLT  pi vmx 


m 

“ Can  you  rise  ? * he  asked  sharply,  Cf  if  so  get  tip  and  com® 
inside.  I’ll  give  you  something  to  do  you  good.” 

With  many  groans  and  asseverations  of  extreme  pain  Flip 
struggled  to  bis  feet,  and  aided  by  Myles  went  inside,  up 
the  stairs,  and  was  at  last  safely  deposited  on  the  hearthrug 
in  front  of  the  fire,  where  he  lay  and  groaned  with  great 
dramatic  effect 

" Fll  give  you  some  hot  port  wine,**  said  Myles,  going  to 
fee  sideboard  and  taking  out  a glass  and  a bottl^  "so  Fit 
have  to  go  downstairs  and  get  some  hot  waler—you  wait 
here.” 

Flip  groaned  again  and  gyrated  ‘ on  the  floor  like  a young 
eel ; but  when  the  door  had  closed  behind  his  benefactor, 
he  sprang  to  his  feet  and  took  a survey  of  the  room. 

It  was  a large  and  lofty  apartment,  with  a pair  of  folding 
doors  on  one  side,  which  being  half  open  showed  Flip  that 
the  other  room  was  a bedroom. 

There  was  a sideboard  in  the  sitting-room  and  near  this 
a writing-table,  towards  which  Flip  darted  and  commenced 
to  turn  over  the  papers  rapidly  with  the  idea  of  finding  the 
dagger  hidden  underneath. 

Nothing  however  rewarded  his  efforts,  and  though  he 
looked  into  the  sideboard,  examined  the  book-case  and 
lifted  up  the  covers  of  the  chairs,  he  found  no  sign  of  the 
weapon. 

M Must  be  in  the  bedroom,”  thought  Flip,  scratching  his 
head  in  perplexity  and  wondering  how  he  could  get  in,  when 
suddenly  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  not  examined  the 
mantel-piece. 

There  was  not  a moment  to  be  lost,  as  Myles  might 
return  at  any  moment,  so  in  a second  Flip  scrambled  up 
on  a chair,  and  was  eagerly  looking  among  the  ornaments 
on  the  mantel-piece. 

There  was  a mirror  framed  in  tarnished  gold,  and  in 
front  of  this  a tawdry  French  clock  under  a glass  shade,  two 
Dresden  china  figures  simpering  at  one  another,  and  two 
tall  green  vases  at  each  end.  Flip  saw  nothing  of  what  he 
wanted  till  he  peered  into  one  of  these  vases,  when  he  saw 
something  looking  like  steel,  and  drew  forth  a slender  shining 
blade  with  no  handle. 

“ Wonder  if  this  is  what  the  guVnor  wants, * he  said  to 
himself,  turning  it  over  gingerly,  “ 'tain't  got  no  *andle.w 

lie  thought  for  a moment,  and  then,  as  he  had  been  m 


THE  mssma  LINK 


lucky  with  one  vase  looked  into  the  other,  and  found  a 
cross  handle — he  joined  the  two  aad  they  fitted  perfectly. 
Being  certain  this  was  what  Dowker  wanted,  he  was  think- 
ing how  he  could  take  it,  when  he  heard  Myles  ascending 
the  stairs.  Jumping  down  he  hid  the  broken  blade  and  the 
handle  securely  among  his  rags,  being  very  careful  not  to 
jsriek  himself  -as  he  remembered  Dcwker’s  warning  about 
the  poison,  then  he  lay  down  on  the  hearthrug  again,  and 
was  groaning  loudly,  when  Myles  entered  with  the  hot 
water. 

11  Feeling  bad  ? 99  asked  Myles  sympathetically,  pouring  out 
some  port  wine, 

“ Awful,0  groaned  Flip  feeling  not  & bit  of  compunction 
lit  the 'treacherous  part  he  was  playing.  “ If  a cold  I think— 
cold  and  'anger/ 

“ Here  drink  this,0  said  Desmond,  kneeling  down  beside 
him,  and  giving  him  the  steaming  tumbler.  w It  will  do 

you  good.0 

“Thanks,  gfsv’nor,”  said  Flip  gratefully,  feeling  if  the 
broken  blade  was  ail  safe,  “it  'nil  warm  me  up/ 

Desmond  lighted  his  pipe  and  sat  watching  the  ragged 
little  Arab  drinking  the  hot  wine,  never  thinking  for  a 
moment  that  he  was  nourishing  a viper — a viper  that  would 
turn  and  stin’g  him.  Honest  himself,  he  never  suspected 
wrong-doing  in  others,  and  while  succouring  this  outca&i  ha 
did  not  know  he  was  doing  an  evil  thing  for  himself. 

After  Flip  had  finished  the  wine  he  declared  he  felt  better, 
and  with  many  asseverations  of  gratitude  took  leave  of  his 
benefactor. 

“Poor  little  devil  1 ” said  Desmond  as  he  closed  the  door 
&aw  the  ragged  little  urchin  scudding  away  into  the 
darkness,  “ he  seemed  very  bad— well  I’ve  done  one  good 
action,  so  perhaps  it  will  bring  me  a reward1* 

It  did,  and  the  reward  was  that  next  morning  Myles 
fesmond  of  Bloomsbury,  journalist,  was  arrested  far  the 
milder  of  Lena  Sanschioe. 


msmf&j sffi* 


SHE  PICCADILLY  WVXSOA 


CHAPTER  XL 

ANOTHER  COMPLICATION. 

Though  he  had  arrested  Myles  Desmond,  Dowker  was  by 
no  means  certain  that  he  had  got  a hold  of  the  right  man. 
Judging  from  the  conversation  reported  by  Flip,  Desmond 
himself  appeared  to  have  strong  suspicions  about  Callistojs, 
and  Dowker  in  his  own  mind  became  convinced  that  the/e 
was  some  connection  between  the  elopement  of  Lady 
Balscombe  and  the  murder  of  Lena  Sarschine. 

He  wanted  to  find  out  the  name  of  the  woman  who 
visited  Lady  Balscombe  on  the  night  of  the  murder,  for  a 
sudden  thought  had  presented  itself,  that  this  unknown 
visitor  might  have  been  Lena  Sarschine.  But  the  idea 
seemed  absurd,  for  a woman  of  such  a character  as  Lord 
Calliston's  mistress  could  hardly  have  the  audacity  to  visit 
Lady  Balscombe. 

“And  yet,”  pondered  Dowker,  u I don't  know — these 
two  woman  both  loved  the  same  man,  and  a free-lance  like 
Lena  Sarschine  would  not  hesitate  for  a moment  in  slanging 
any  woman  who  took  her  man  away — but  why  did  not  Lady 
Balscombe  kick  up  a row  and  order  her  to  leave  the  house  ? 
—I’m  hanged  if  I can  get  to  the  bottom  of  this  ! ” 

At  length  Dowker  decided  that  the  best  thing  to  be  done 
would  be  to  find  out  from  some  servant  of  the  Balscombe 
household  all  that  took  place  subsequent  to  Lady  Bals- 
cornbe's  departure.  First,  however,  he  decided  on  seeing 
Lydia  Fenny  and  finding  out  if  Lena  Sarschine  had  let  fall 
any  hint  of  calling  on  her  rival. 

Lydia  Fenny  received  the  detective  eagerly,  as  she 
evidently  loved  her  mistress  and  wanted  to  do  all  in  her 
power  to  further  the  ends  of  justice.  As  there  was  no 
time  to  be  lost,  Dowker  plunged  at  once  into  the  subject 
matter  of  his  visit. 

“ Did  Miss  Sarschine  state  on  the  night  of  her  murder 
where  she  was  going  ? ” he  asked 


ANormm  complicattok. 


m 


•Yes,"  replied  Lydia,  61  as  I told  you  before  she  said  she 
was  going  to  Lord  Calliston's  rooms,” 

“Nowhere  else?” 

“ Not  to  my  knowledge.” 

“Humph ! she  did  not  make  any  remark  that  would  lead 
you  to  believe  she  was  going  to  Lady  Balscombe's  ? ” 

“Lady  Balscorobe’s  l”  echoed  Lydia  in  astonishment, 
“ why  v/hat  would  she  want  to  do  there  ? ” 

“ I don't  knowr,  but  I think  she  was  there  on  that  night,” 
and  Dowker  detailed  to  Lydia  the  conversation  overheard 
by  Flip,  at  the  conclusion  of  which  she  said : 

“ I suppose  you  wrant  to  find  out  from  the  servants  if 
Miss  Sarschine  was  there  ? ” 

“Yes;  do  you  know  any  of  the  servants  ? * 

“ One — Lady  Balscombe's  maid — Anne  Lifford.” 

“ Oh  ! M said  Dowker  in  a satisfied  tone.  “ Can  you  ask 
her  to  come  along  here  and  see  you  ? I can  find  out  all 
I want  to  know  from  her.” 

“ I daresay  I can  get  her  to  come  here  to-day,  as  her  mis- 
tress being  away  she  cannot  be  busy/' 

“ Good  1 ” replied  the  detective,  “ send  for  her  at  once. 
I will  wait  here.” 

“ Very  well,”  said  Lydia,  and  was  leaving  the  room  when 
Dowker  called  her  back 

“ Could  you  let  me  see  your  mistress's  private  desk  ? ” he 
%skecL 

“What  for?”  demanded  Lydia,  rather  taken  aback. 
“Because  I want  to  look  over  her  papers;  from  them  1 
can  gather  her  past  life,  and  find  out  if  anyone  had  a 
motive  in  killing  her.” 

“ Oh  1 ” said  Lydia  after  a pause,  “ you  don't  think  then 
taat  Mr.  Desmond  is  guilty  ? ” 

Dowker  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

“ How  can  I tell  ? * he  replied  ; “ as  far  as  I can  see  he 
had  no  motive,  and  one  does  not  commit  a murder  for 
sport — but  come,  show  me  her  desk.” 

Lydia  looked  at  him  doubtfully. 

“ 1 don't  know  if  i ought  to  let  yoti  see  her  private 
jiapers.” 

Dowker  laughed  in  a subdued  manner. 
u Why  not  ? ” he  said  lightly,  “she  is  dead,  and  we  want 
to  find  out  who  killed  her — looking  at  her  papers  cannot 
do  any  harm  and  may  save  the  life  of  an  innocent  man,” 


m tm  fiooadilly  Ftmzm 

Lydia  Fenny  hesitated  no  longer,  but  leading  the 
detective  to  the  end  of  the  drawing  room  showed  him  a 
recess  wherein  was  placed  a very  handsome  desk  of  the 
ordinary  office  character,  Dowker  tried  some  of  the 
drawers. 

“ Locked/’  he  said  quietly*  “ Have  you  the  keys?*  * 

“ No,  she  had  them  with  her/1 

Dowker  made  up  his  mind  to  commit  a burglary* 

M Bring  me  a chisel* 

“At  once,*  replied  Lydia  Fenny,  going,  “and  FA  also 

send  for  Anne  Lifford.” 

She  left  the  room,  and  Dowker  sitting  down  in  front  of 
the  desk  examined  it  carefully.^  It  was  one  of  those  table 
desks  with  a knee-hole  in  the  centre  and  a row  of  drawers 
on  each  side.  At  the  back  were  a number  of  pigeon  holes 
containing  papers,  and  these  Dowker  examined,  but  found 
nothing  more  than  bills  and  blank  sheets  of  paper. 

“ Whatever  private  papers  she’s  had/'  said  Dowker,  on 
discovering  this,  “are  m these  drawers.* 

Lydia  Fenny  arrived  with  the  chisel  and  a small  hammer, 
both  of  which  she  handed  to  Dowker,  telling  him  at  the 
same  time  she  had  sent  for  Anne  Lifford.  Dowker  nodded 
carelessly  and  began  to  force  open  the  drawers. 

After  half-an-houFs  hard  work  this  was  the  result  of  his 
labours. 

First,  a bundle  of  old  letters  addresed  to  “ Miss  Helena 
Dicksfail,  Post  Office,  Folkestone/'  signed  F.  CarriiL 

Second,  a photograph  of  a handsome  white-haired  old 
man,  on  the  bade  of  which  photograph  was  written,  “You? 
loving  father,  Michael  Dicksfail* 

Third,  a photograph  of  Lena  Sarscbine,  taken  in  a white 
dress  with  a tennis  racket  in  her  hand 

Dowker  examined  the  photographs  carefully,  and  then 
coolly  read  all  the  letters,  of  which  there  were  about  ten* 
After  doing  this,  he  turned  to  Lydia  Fenny  who  had  been 
watching  him  all  the  time,  and  said  : 

“ 1 can  read  a whole  story  in  this ; the  name  of  youi 
mistress  was  not  Lena  Sarschine,  but  Helena  Dicksfail— 
she  lived  at  Folkestone  with  her  father,  Captain  Michael 
Dicksfail,  and  a lady  she  calls  Amelia,  whom  I take  to  be 
ker  sister.  Lord  Calliston  went  down  to  Folkestone,  saw  her 
and  fell  in  love — all  these  letters  show  how  he  conducted 
K\h  intrigue,  which  he  did  under  the  name  of  Frank  CaxriEL 


motam  mmuoAnon. 


m 

He  Imd  Miss  Dicksfall  but  did  not  wish  to  marry  her ; at 
last  he  persuaded  her  to  run  away  with  him,  and  at  last  she 
did  so.  Ashamed  of  her  position,  she  changed  her  name 
to  Lena  Sarschine  so  as  to  conceal  her  identity.  The  por- 
trait of  the  old  gentleman  is  that  of  her  father,  Captain 
Michael  Dicksfall,  and  this  one  is  herself.” 

Lydia  Fenny  listened  in  silent  amazement  to  the  way  in 
which  he  had  pieced  the  story  together,  and  then  taking  the 
portraits  in  her  hand  she  looked  at  them  long  and 
earnestly. 

“Yes,”  she  said  at  length,  laying  down  the  photographs 
with  a sigh.  “ It  is  Miss  Sarsehine,  but  it  must  have  been 
taken  some  time  ago,  for  I never  saw  her  in  that  dress,  and  I 
have  been  with  her  for  about  a year.” 

Dowker  was  khoufc  to  make  a reply  when  the  door 
opened  and  a woman  entered.  Tall,  thin,  with  a pale  face, 
dark  hair,  and  an  aggressive  manner,  dressed  in  a green 
dress,  and  bonnet  to  match. 

* Oh  1 * observed  Lydia  on  seeing  her,  “ is  this  you, 
Anne  ? ” 

Dowker  looked  sharply  at  the  new  comer,  whom  he  now 
knew  to  be  Lady  Balscombe's  maid,  and  she  returned  his 
gaze  with  a look  of  suspicion. 

“ Well,  sir,”  she  said  at  length,  in  a rather  harsh  voice, 
64 1 hope  you'll  know  me  again.” 

Dowker  laughed,  and  Lydia  hastened  to  introduce  him 
to  Miss  Lifford,  who  being  an  extremely  self-possessed  young 
person  took  the  introduction  very  calmly,  though  she  mani- 
fested some  surprise  when  she  heard  Mr.  Dowker's  calling. 

“ This  gentleman,”  said  Lydia  when  they  were  all  seated, 
$t  wants  to  ask  you  a few  questions.” 

“And  for  what?”  asked  Miss  Lifford,  indignantly, 
“ my  character  I hope  being  above  policemen's  prying.” 

“ Fm  not  a policeman,”  explained  Dowker,  smoothly, 
" but  a detective,  and  I want  to  know  all  that  took  place 
on  the  night  your  mistress  eloped.” 

“ Are  you  employed  by  Sir  Rupert  ? ” asked  Anne, 
grandly,  “ because  though  I knows  they  fought  bitter,  yet 
wild  bulls  won't  drag  anything  out  of  me  against  my  mis- 
tress, she  being  a good  one  to  me.” 

“ I don't  want  you  to  say  anything  against  your  mis* 
tress/'  replied  Dowker,  mildly,  " but  I am  investigating  thia 
case  of  murder.” 


piwadxlly  mzzm> 


m i 

“ Murder  f * echoed  Miss  Lifford  in  a scared  tone,  u who 
Is  murdered — not  Lady  Balscombe  ? ” 

“No,”  said  Lydia,  bursting  into  tears,  “but  my  poor 
misti ess,  Miss  Sarschine.” 

“A  person  of  no  repute,”  sniffed  Anne,  coldly. 

“Leave  her  alone,"  said  Lydia  passionately,  “Shefs 
dead,  poor  soul,  and  even  if  she  was  not  married,  she  was 
better  than  Lady  Balscombe*  carrying  on  with  Lord 
Calliston.” 

“Oh,  indeed,  miss,”  said  Ann,  rising  indignantly,  “This 
is  a plot,  is  it,  to  mix  up  Lady  Balscombe  with  your 
mistress  ? I won't  have  anything  to  do  with  it,” 

Dowker  caught  her  wrist  as  she  arose,  and  forced  her 
hack  into  her  chair. 

“ You'll  answer  what  I want  to  know,”  he  said  sternly, 

“ or  it  will  be  the  worse  for  yourself.” 

Upon  tliis  Miss  Lifford  began  to  weep,  and  demanded  ii 
she  was  a slave  or  a British  female,  to  be  thus  badgered  and 
assaulted  by  a policeman.  At  last,  after  some  difficulty, 
Dowker  succeeded  in  making  her  understand  that  what  he 
wanted  to  know  was  not  detrimental  to  her  mistress,  upon 
which  she  said  she  would  tell  him  what  he  required.  So 
Dowker  produced  his  note-book  and  prepared  to  take  down 
Miss  Lifford's  evidence. 

“ First,”  asked  Dowker,  “ do  you  remember  the  night 
when  Lady  Balscombe  eloped?” 

“ Not  being  a born  fool,  I do,”  retorted  Miss  Lifford 
sharply.  “ Such  goings  on  I never  saw.” 

“ Can  you  tell  me  all  that  took  place  on  that  night  ? * 

Miss  Lifford  sniffed  thoughtfully. 

“ There  was  a ball  they  was  going  to.® 

“ Who  were  going  to  ? ” 

“ Lady  Balscombe  and  Miss  Penfold.  They  did  go,  and 
left  shortly  before  ten,  but  before  I had  time  to  turn  round, 
they  were  back  again,  as  Lady  Balscombe  said  she  had  * 
headache.” 

“ Oh,  so  I suppose  she  went  to  bed  ? ” 

4<  Then  you  suppose  wrong,”  retorted  Anne  triumphantly 
“ for  there  was  a pusson  waiting  to  see  her.” 

“ A lady  ? ” asked  Dowker,  eagerly. 

“I  don't  know,”  retorted  Miss  Liiiord  sharply,  “She 
had  a veil  on.” 

“ Can  you  descr«Jfc»  her  dress  ? * 


A$mm&  OOMFtlOAHOSr, 


Miss  Lifford  thought  a moment,  while  Lydia  bent  forward 
anxiously  to  hear  her  answer. 

“ A hat  trimmed  with  blue  and  brown  velvet,  and  a seal- 
skin jacket.” 

Lydia  Fenny  sank  back  in  her  seat  with  a groan. 

“ Oh,  my  poor  mistress  ! ” 

“ Your  mistress ! ” echoed  Miss  Lifford,  turning  sharply. 
45  It  could  not  have  been  Miss  Sarschine  who  called  on  that 
night.” 

“ But  Fm  certain  it  was,”  said  Dowker. 

“ What  impertinence  ! ” muttered  the  virtuous  Anne. 

“Never  mind/*  said  Dowker  sharply,  “ go  on- with  your 
story.” 

Miss  Lifford  sniffed  indignantly  and  resumed  : 

“ Lady  Balscombe  returned  at  half-past  ten  and  went  up 
to  her  dressing-room,  where  this — this  lady  was  waiting 
for  her.  Miss  Penfold  went  to  bed.  I don’t  know  how 
long  the  lady  was  with  my  mistress,  as  I was  told  that  my 
mistress  would  not  require  me  again  that  night;  but  I 
waited  about  in  case  I should  be  wanted,  and  saw  the  lady 
leave  the  house  shortly  after  eleven.” 

“ Miss  Sarschine  ? ” 

“Yes — at  least,  the  lady  in  the  sealskin  jacket,  and  you 
say  it  was  Miss  Sarschine,  so  I suppose  it  was.  I then  went 
to  Lady  Balscombe’s  room,  but  found  the  door  locked,  so 
as  I thought  she  had  gone  to  bed  I went  downstairs  to  get 
my  supper.  When  I came  upstairs  again,  about  twelve,  the 
door  was  still  locked,  so  I went  to  bed.” 

“ Lady  Balscombe  could  not  have  gone  out  in  the  mean- 
time?” 

“No,  because  I asked  the  footman  if  anyone  had  gone 
out  or  come  in,  and  he  said  no  one.” 

“She  could  not  have  gone  out  without  attracting  the 
notice  of  the  servants,  I suppose  ? ” 

“ No,  they  would  have  recognised  her  at  once.  I think 
she  waited  till  everyone  was  in  bed  and  then  went  off  to 
meet  Lord  Calliston.” 

“ But  you  are  sure  she  did  not  leave  till  after  twelve  ? ” 

“ Fd  swear  it  anywhere,”  returned  Miss  Lifiord  im- 
patiently. 

“ In  that  case,”  muttered  Dowker,  “ it  could  not  have  been 
Lady  Balscombe  who  saw  Mr.  Desmond  at  Lord  Calliston’# 
chambers,  so  it  must  have  been  Lena  Sarschine.” 


fHj  PICCADILLY  PUZZLE. 


14 

“ Do  you  want  to  know  anything  more?”  asked  Miss 
Lifford  idly. 

“ Yes.  Tell  me,  what  was  Lady  Balscombe  like  ? " 

Miss  Lifford  laughed  contemptuously. 

“ Why,  don't  you  know  ? ” she  replied  “ You  ought  to, 
as  she  was  one  of  the  beauties  of  the  season.  Her  portrait 
was  all  over  the  place.  Why,"  catching  sight  of  the  photo- 
graph on  the  study-table,  “ you  have  one.” 

Dowker  handed  her  the  photograph. 

“ Do  you  say  that  is  Lady  Balscombe  ? " 

" Yes,  certainly.” 

“What  nonsense  I”  said  Lydia,  “why,  that  is  Misa 
Sarschine.” 

“I  never  saw  Mm  Sarschine,”  retorted  Miss  Lifford, 
“but  I know  that’s  Lady  Balscombe.” 

“ I never  saw  Lady  Balscombe,”  replied  Lydia,  angrily, 
“ but  I know  that's  Miss  Sarschine.” 

Dowker  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and  then  slipped 
the  photograph  into  his  {racket  along  with  the  letters  and 
the  other  photograph. 

“ There’s  only  one  way  of  settling  this,”  he  said  quietly, 
* I’ll  call  on  the  photographer  and  ask  him  who  it  is.” 

He  gave  Anne  Lifford  some  money,  and  then  left  the 
house  wrapped  in  thought 

“This  is  a new  complication,”  he  said  to  himselfj  “this 
resemblance — they  must  be  very  like  one  another  if  their 
maids  mix  them  up  like  this — and  then  Lena  Sarschine 
calling  on  Lady  Balscombe,  I wonder  if  there  can  be  any 
relationship  between  them-~not  likely — a lady  of  title,  and 
a woman  of  light  character — well,”  finished  up  Dowker, 
philosophically,  “ I think  the  best  thing  for  me  to  do  is  to 
discover  as  much  about  Lena  Sarschine’s  previous  life  as 
possible,  and  to  do  this,  I’ll  run  down  to  Folkestone,  ari* 
look  up  Captain  Michael  DicksfalL 


& family  maw&t. 


m 


CHAPTER  XII 

A FAMILY  BISTORT. 

Mr.  Dowker  was  not  a man  to  let  grass  grow  under  his 
feet,  so  he  went  straight  to  the  photographer  whose  name 
was  on  the  back  of  the  portrait  found  in  Lena  Sarschine’s 
possession,  and  ascertained  without  much  difficulty  that  it 
was  that  of  Lady  Balscombe. 

“ Now,  what  the  deuce  was  that  portrait  doing  in  her 
desk  ? ’’  he  muttered,  as  he  left  the  gallery,  “ and  why  should 
Lydia  Fenny  mistake  it  for  her  mistress  ? I wish  I could 
get  a picture  of  Miss  Sarschine.” 

But  he  could  not  manage  this,  for,  according  to  Lydia 
Fenny,  Miss  Sarschine  would  never  consent  to  have  her 
portrait  taken,  so  that  he  had  no  means  of  learning  if 
there  was  such  a wonderful  resemblance  between  the  two 
women,  except  by  personal  description,  which  was  not  by 
any  means  satisfactory. 

Under  these  circumstances  there  was  only  one  thing  to 
be  done — see  Captain  Dicksfall,  the  father  of  Lena — so 
putting  a few  things  together  Dowker  caught  the  afternoon 
train  to  Folkestone  from  Charing  Cross. 

Dowker  duly  arrived  at  Folkestone  and  took  up  his  abode 
in  an  hotel  in  the  Sandigate  Road,  where  he  ordered  him- 
self a pleasant  little  dinner  and  made  the  acquaintance  of  a 
fatherly  old  waiter  who  knew  everyone  and  everything. 

Barbers  have  the  credit  of  being  most  notorious  gossips, 
videlicet  Figaro,  and  the  Barber  in  “ The  Arabian  Nights,” 
but,  as  a matter  of  fact,  they  are  not  worse  than  waiters, 
who  generally  hear  everything  that’s  going  on  in  their 
locality,  and,  being  of  a garrulous  nature,  do  not  keep  their 
knowledge  to  themselves. 

This  waiter  at  the  Prince’s  Hotel  rejoiced  in  the  name  of 
Martin,  and,  hovering  about  Dowker,  armed  with  a napkin 
and  a pint  bottle  of  Heidsieck,  managed  to  satisfy  that 
gentleman’s  curiosity  concerning  the  existence  of  Captain 
Michael  Dicksfall, 


S 


race  PICCADILLY  PUZZLfc 


n 

“Yes,  sir — know  him  well,  sir — by  sight,  sir,"  he  said, 
brimming  the  empty  glass  with  champagne.  “ H’old  gentle 
man,  sir — bin  in  the  army- — ’ad  two  daughters.” 

“ Two  daughters  ? ” repeated  Dowker  eagerly. 

“ Yes,  sir — Miss  Amelia  and  Miss  Helena,  sir — twins — as 
fine-looking  gals  as  you  ever  saw,  sir — tall,  ’andsome,  and 
golden  ’air.” 

“ Oh,  indeed  !”  replied  Dowker  indifferently.  “And  ax* 
they  living  with  Captain  Dicksfall  ? ” 

“No,  sir,”  said  Martin  gravely.  “You  see,  sir,  Miss 
Helena  feJl  in  love  with  a gent  who  wasj  stopping  at  the 
Pavilion,  sir,  and  went  off  with  him.” 

“ What  was  his  name  ? ” 

“ Don’t  know,  sir.  He  called  himself  Carrill,  but  they  do 
say  it  was  not  his  right  name.” 

“Humph!” 

Dowker  pondered  a little  over  this.  It  was  as  he  had 
thought  after  reading  the  letters.  Lord  Calliston  had 
masqueraded  at  Folkestone  under  the  name  of  Carrill,  and 
had  inveigled  Helena  Dicksfall  away  from  home,  and  kept 
her  in  St.  John’s  Wood  as  “Lena  Sarschine.” 

“ And  the  other  young  lady,”  he  asked,  “ Miss  Amelia  ? " 

“Oh,  she  made  a good  match,  sir,”  replied  Martin. 
“Married  Sir  Rupert  Balscombe,  sir,  about  a year  ago. 
But  I did  ’ear,  sir,  as  ’ow  she  ’ad  bolted  last  week,  sir,  with 
Lord  Calliston — same  blood,  sir ; it  will  come  out,”  and 
Martin  departed  to  attend  upon  an  important  customer. 

“ Same  blood,”  repeated  Dowker  musingly.  “ I wonder 
if  he  knows  it’s  the  same  man  ? Calliston  evidently  had  a 
penchant  fm  the  family,  for  there  seems  to  be  no  doubt  that 
Miss  Sarschine  and  Lady  Balscombe  were  sisters.  So  he 
kept  one  and  made  love  to  the  other!  Queer — deuced 
queer ! Well,  I think  I had  better  look  up  Captain 
Dicksfall” 

He  finished  his  wine,  and  putting  on  his  hat,  went  out 
into  the  cool  evening  and  strolled  leisurely  along  the  Leas, 
first  having  taken  the  precaution  of  putting  Dicksfall’s  address 
in  his  pocket. 

There  were  a great  number  of  people  on  the  Leas,  and 
that  pleasant  promenade  was  crowded  with  youth,  beauty, 
and  fashion.  Charming  girls  in  charming  dresses,  well- 
dressed  men,  happy-looking  boys,  and  here  and  there  a 
shaky-looking  invalid,  formed  the  greater  part  of  th« 


A FAMILY  HXST0BY. 


m 

assembly,  so  that  Dowker  found  a good  deal  of  amusement 
in  watching  the  passers-by.  The  lift  was  hard  at  work 
lowering  people  to  the  beach  below  or  taking  them  up  to  the 
higher  level,  and  the  pier  was  full  of  gaily-dressed  idlers, 
who  looked  like  pigmies  from  the  heights  above.  Very 
pleasant  and  amusing  to  an  unoccupied  man,  but  Dowker 
being  down  on  business,  and  not  pleasure,  turned  away  from 
the  pleasant  scene  and  went  up  past  Harvey’s  statue  towards 
the  heart  of  the  new  town. 

He  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  Captain  Dicksfall’s  cottage, 
which  was  a comfortable  - looking  place  with  a small  garden 
in  front  A neat  maid-servant  admitted  him  into  a dusky 
passage,  and  from  thence  showed  him  into  a small  drawing- 
room, at  the  end  of  which,  near  the  window,  Captain  Dicks- 
fall  lay  on  a sofa,  looking  out  on  to  the  quiet  street.  A 
haggard,  pale  face,  worn  by  suffering,  but  which  had  once 
been  handsome.  He  lay  supinely  on  the  sofa  in  an  attitude 
of  utter  lassitude,  covered  by  a heavy  rug,  and  his  slender 
white  hands  were  toying  with  a book  which  was  lying  on  his 
lap. 

He  turned  fretfully  when  Dowker  entered,  and  spoke  in 
the  querulous  voice  of  an  invalid. 

“ What  is  it,  my  good  man  ? ” he  said  peevishly.  “ Why 
do  you  come  and  disturb  me  at  this  hour  ? My  doctor  has 
ordered  complete  rest,  and  how  can  I get  it  if  you  trouble 
me  ? ” 

“ Selfish  old  chap,”  thought  Dowker,  but  without  saying  a 
word  he  took  his  seat  near  the  invalid  and  commenced  to 
talk. 

“ I am  sorry  to  trouble  you,  sir,”  he  said  respectfully, 
“ but  I wanted  to  see  you  about  your  daughters.” 

“My  daughters  1”  echoed  Captain  Dicksfall,  angrily. 
“You  are  making  a mistake,  I have  only  one  — Lady 
Balscombe ! ” 

Dowker  felt  disappointed.  Only  one  daughter  ! If  so, 
Lena  Sarschine  could  be  no  relation  of  Lady  Balscombe, 
and  his  theory  about  the  possible  motive  for  the  committal 
of  the  Piccadilly  crime  would  fall  to  the  ground.  But  then 
the  name,  Helena  Dicksfall — the  portrait  of  the  old  gentle- 
man before  him.  It  must  be  true. 

“ I understood  you  had  two  daughters,  sir,  Lady  Bals- 
combe and  Miss  Helena  Dicksfall  ? ” 

The  invalid  turned  sharply  on  him. 

I* 


m m hccadhxy  ?tr m 

44  Who  the  devil  are  you  to  intrude  yourself  fef©  my 
priirate  affairs  ? ” 

Bowker  came  at  once  promptly  to  the  point 

44  My  name  is  Dowker.  I am  a detective." 

Captain  Dicksfall  struck  his  hand  angrily  down  m the 
pillow, 

“ Sent  by  Sir  Rupert,  I presume  ?”  he  said  with  a sneer 
“ He  wants  to  get  a divorce,  and  you  have  come  to  me  for 
evidence.  I know  nothing — my  daughter  was  always  a good 
daughter  to  me,  and  if  Sir  Rupert  had  treated  her  well,  this 
elopement  with  Lord  Calliston  would  never  have  taken  place. 
He  is  to  blame — not  she." 

44  I do  not  come  from  Sir  Rupert,”  said  Dowker  coldly, 
“ but  from  Scotland  Yard.” 

44  About  what  ? ” 

44  The  death  of  your  other  daughter.” 

Captain  Dicksfall  started  up  with  a groan,  and  stared 
wildly  at  Dowker. 

44  Good  God  1 Is  Helena  dead  ? ” 

“Who  is  Helena?”  asked  Dowker,  stolidly. 

u My  daughter — my  daughter.” 

u I thought  you  said  you'd  only  one,  sir.” 

The  sick  man  turned  away  his  face. 

44  I had  two,”  he  said  in  a low  tone,  44  but  one,  the  eldest, 
ran  away  with  some  scamp,  called  CarrilL  Since  then  I 
have  heard  nothing  of  her,  so  I always  say  I have  only 
one.” 

Dowker  thought  for  a few  moments.  It  was  a very 
delicate  position  to  occupy,  and,  feeling  it  to  be  so,  for  a 
moment  he  was  doubtful  as  to  how  to  proceed. 

“Captain  Dicksfall,”  he  said  at  length,  44 1 know  I am 
only  a common  man  and  you  axe  a gentleman ; it  is  not  for 
such  as  me  to  speak  to  you  about  your  private  affairs,  but 
this  is  a matter  of  life  or  death  to  a human  being,  and,  if 
you  hear  my  story,  I am  sure  you  will  not  refuse  to  help  me 
by  telling  me  what  I want  to  know. 

Dicksfall  was  looking  at  the  detective  with  a sombre  fire 
burning  in  his  unusually  bright  eyes,  then  with  a sigh  he 
lay  down  and  prepared  to  listen. 

44 Tell  me  what  you  wish,”  he  said  languidly,  “and,  if 
possible,  I will  do  wW  you  require.” 

Whereupon,  Dowker  told  mm  the  story  of  the  Jenny* 
Street  murder,  the  elopement  of  Lady  Bakcombe,  and  tbe 


A FAMILY  HISTOBY. 


or 

reasons  he  t ®A  far  bslieving  that  the  two  incidents  were 
connected  in  some  mysterious  way.  He  also  informed  him 
of  the  arrest  of  Myles  Desmond,  and  of  the  doubts  he 
entertained  concerning  his  criminality. 

At  the  conclusion,  Dicksfall  was  silent  for  a minute,  then 
turned  towards  the  detective,  and  clasped  his  thin  fingers 
nervously  together. 

“ I am  a proud  man,”  he  said  with  a touch  of  pathos, 
“and  do  not  care  about  telling  the  world  my  private 
affairs ; but  in  a case  like  this  1 think  it  is  only  right  I 
should  put  tftyself  aside  for  the  sake  of  clearing  the 
character  of  an  innocent  man.  What  do  you  wish  to 
know  ? ” 

“ Was  Lena  Sarschia*  your  daughter  ? " 

For  answer  Dicksf&H  pointed  to  a small  table  near  at 
hand,  upon  which  was  a morocco  frame  containing  two 
portraits.  Dowker  took  them  to  the  window  and  looked  at 
them, 

* “ Both  of  the  same  lady?*  he  asked 

DickafaU  smiled  faintly. 

“ You  are  not  the  first  who  has  been  deceived, * he  said 
with  a sigh.  “No!  One  is  my  daughter  Helena,  who, 
from  your  story,  I believe  to  be  Lena  Sarschine,  and  the 
other  is  Amelia,  Lady  Balscombe — twins.* 

Dowker  examined  the  photographs  closely,  and  was 
astonished  at  the  likeness,  which  was  further  aided  by  both 
of  them  being  dressed  exactly  alike. 

“ It  is  wonderful,*  he  said,  and  no  longer  marvelled  at 
the  way  in  which  Lydia  Fenny  and  Anne  Lifford  had 
confused  the  identity  of  the  portrait  found  in  Lena 
Sarschine>8  desk. 

“ I hare  been  living  here  for  many  years,*  said  Dicksfall 
in  a low  voice,  “and  my  two  daughters  lived  with  me. 
Their  mother  has  been  dead  a long  time.  About  three 
years  ago,  a young  man,  who  called  himself  Carrill,  came 
here  and  stopped  at  the  Pavilion  HoteL  He  obtained  an 
introduction  to  me  by  some  means,  and  appeared  to  be 
struck  with  the  beauty  of  Helena.  I thought  he  was  going 
to  marry  her,  when  I heard  rumours  as  to  the  fastness  of 
his  life,  and  also  that  he  was  not  what  he  represented 
himself  to  be.  I taxed  him  with  it,  but  he  denied  the 
accusation,  yet  so  transparent  was  his  denial  that  I forbade 
him  the  bouse,  The  result  was  that  Helena  ran  away  with 


THE  PICCADILLY  PUZZLE. 


70 

him,  and,  untS  the  time  you  spoke  to  me  of  her  and  told 
me  his  real  name,  I did  not  know  it,  and  never  entertained 
any  suspicion  as  to  his  real  rank  in  life.  I was  so  angry 
that  I forbade  Helena's  name  to  be  mentioned  in  my 
hearing,  and  always  said,  as  I did  to-night,  that  I had  only 
one  daughter — my  daughter  Amelia,  married  to  Sir  Rupert 
Ralscombe  last  year,  and  I thought  that  she  would,  at  least, 
not  follow  the  example  of  her  sister.  Now,  however,  I know 
all,  hut,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I blame  Sir  Rupert  for  her 
elopement,  as  I know  she  was  a kind  daughter,  and  I am 
sure  she'd  have  made  a good  wife.  He  was  very  jealous 
of  her,  and  had  a fearful  temper,  so  I daresay  he  drove  her 
to  it  From  what  you  say,  I suppose  my  poor  Helena 
went  to  see  her  sister  on  the  night  of  the  elopement  to 
dissuade  her  from  going  with  Lord  Calliston,  and  surely 
she  had  the  best  right  to  speak  of  one  who  had  ruined  her 
own  life,  but  evidently  her  arguments  were  of  no  avail,  and 
she  called  at  Calliston's  chambers  to  remonstrate  with  him. 
He  was  not  there,  and  she  went  out  to  her  death,  and  the® 
Amelia  eloped  with  him,  as  you  have  told  me.  I was  a fast 
man  in  my  youth,  and  the  sins  of  the  father  are  being 
visited  on  the  children." 

“But  this  does  not  dear  up  the  mystery  of  Lena 
Sarschine's  death.” 

“ Don't  call  her  by  that  name,”  said  Dicksfall  angrily. 
“ It  is  the  name  that  shames  her.  No ; you  are  right,  it 
does  not  explain  her  death,  but  I do  not  know,  from  what 
you  say,  what  motive  Myles  Desmond  could  have  had  in 
murdering  her.” 

“ I don't  believe  he  did,”  said  Dowker  bluntly,  44  but  I 
want  to  find  out  your  daughter's  past  life.  Had  she  any 
lovers  ? ” 

Dicksfall  flushed  a deep  red. 

“ She  was  always  a good  daughter  to  me,”  he  said  quietly, 
44  but  I believe  she  was  very  much  admired” 

Do  you  know  the  name  of  anyone  who  admired 
her?” 

“ No.” 

“Not  one?”  v 

14  Not  one.” 

There  was  dearly  nothing  more  to  be  gained  from 
Dicksfall,  so  Dowker  respectfully  said  good-bye  and  took 
tin  leave. 


HOT!  DE8M0TO  FIND®  FOTEltm  TI 

* At  all  events,*  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  wended  his 
way  back  to  his  hotel,  u f vs  found  oat  one  thing — Lena 
Ssrschine  and  Lady  Balscombe  were  sisters,  and  both  loved 
the  same  man.  What  Fd  like  to  know  is,  whether  Lady 
Balscombe  killed  her  sister  out  of  jealousy.  D— n it, 
I’m  getting  more  perplexed  than  ever.  This  visit  instead  of 
clearing  up  the  mystery  deepens  it  I think  I'll  sec  Sir 
Rupert  Balscombe  and  ask  him  about  things  ; as  his  wife  is 
mixed  up  in  it,  I've  a right,  and  Fd  give  anything  to  save 
that  young  fellow's  life,  because  I'm  sure  he's  innocent,” 


CHAPTER  XIJX 

t i 

irrLiss  Dxsuosni  nm>$  rmmrn>% 

Myles  Desmond  was  not  a particularly  good  young  man, 
but  good  enough  as  young  men  of  the  present  generation 
go.  He  was  a healthy,  cheery,  enough  for-the-day-is-the- 
evil-thereof  sort  of  fellow,  and  considered  himself  decidedly 
hardly  treated  at  being  arrested  on  such  a serious  charge  as 
that  of  the  murder  of  Lena  Sarschine. 

According  to  the  cynical  creed  prevailing  now-a-days  all 
his  friends  should  have  turned  their  backs  on  him  now  he 
was  in  trouble,  but  there  is  a wonderful  lot  of  undiscovered 
good  even  in  friends,  and  none  of  them  did.  Instead  of 
calling  him  names  and  laughing  at  his  misfortune 
Desmond's  friends  took  up  his  cause  warmly,  and  both  in 
clubs  and  drawing-rooms  he  was  heartily  commiserated. 
Many  people,  both  in  his  own  set  and  in  the  literary  circle 
of  which  he  had  become  a member,  had  taken  a liking  to 
the  bright,  kindly  young  man,  and  emphatically  declared 
that  the  whole  thing  was  a terrible  mistake. 

“ Myles  Desmond  a murderer ! * they  said,  w why  as  soon 
say  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  is  an  Atheist”  So  as 
certain  grasses  only  give  out  perfume  when  crushed,  Myles' 
misfortune  brought  all  his  friends  around  to  help  him  if 
need  be. 

And  he  sadly  needed  help,  poor  fellow,  for  his  position 
was  a very  critical  one,  the  evidence  against  him  being  as 

follows : 

x.  He  had  last  wcut  L ma  Skamkiut  dive  m the  night  of 

Jbft 


n ran  HCCADIIXY  FUZZLS. 

2.  He  had  been  met  in  St.  Jameses  Street  tty  Ellefsby 
not  far  from  the  scene  of  the  crime. 

3.  He  had  in  his  possession  the  dagger  with  which  the 
crime  was,  to  all  appearances,  committed. 

Myles  answered  these  accusations  as  follows : 

1.  He  had  not  seen  Lena  Sarschine  on  that  night,  but 
another  lady  whose  name  he  refused  to  divulge. 

2.  His  presence  in  St.  James's  Street  on  the  night  in 
question  was  purely  accidental' 

3.  And  the  dagger  found  in  the  vase  was  one  he  had 
taken  from  Lena  Sarschine  on  the  afternoon  of  the  day  she 
had  called  to  see  Calliston  about  the  elopement 

44  I'll  tell  you  all  about  that  dagger,"  explained  Myles  to 
Norwood,  his  solicitor.  u I was  at  Calliston’s  rooms  on  the 
Monday  afternoon  looking  over  his  papers,  when  Lena 
Sarschine  came  in  like  a mad  woman  to  see  Calliston.  I 
tried  to  quiet  her,  but  she  refused  to  be  pacified,  and 
pulling  out  the  dagger  said  she  would  kill  Calliston  first 
and  Lady  Balscombe  afterwards.  I tried  to  take  it  from  her 
and  she  flung  it  away — neither  of  us  knew  it  was  poisoned, 
or  I don’t  think  we  would  have  been  so  reckless  over  it 
In  falling,  the  dagger  rested  slantwise  from  the  floor  to 
the  fender,  and  in  springing  to  get  it  I put  my  foot  on  it 
and  broke  the  handle  off.  In  case  she  should  get  it  again, 
I put  the  pieces  in  my  pocket  and  took  them  home — I left 
them  on  a side  table,  so  if  they  were  found  in  the  orna- 
ments someone  must  have  placed  them  there — and  Lena 
Sarschine  went  away  on  that  day.  and  since  then  I have 
seen  nothing  of  her." 

44  Then  who  was  the  lady  you  saw  on  that  night  ? " asked 
his  solicitor. 

44  I cannot  tell  you,”  replied  the  young  man  doggedly. 
44 1 gave  my  word  to  the  lady  I would  not  say  she  had 
been  there  till  I had  her  permission,  and  till  I get  it  l 
cannot." 

44  When  will  you  get  it  ? * 

44  When  Calliston  returns  in  his  yacht81 

14  Why,  in  that  case,”  said  Norwood,  44  you  most  mean 
Lady  Balscombe?  * 

44 1 have  not  said  so.” 

u No,"  replied  Norwood  quickly,  wbut  you  say  your 
permission  to  speak  must  come  from  a lady,  and  the  only 
wdy  on  board  yacht  is  Lady  Balscombe,  as  she  ran 


MYLES  DB&MOHD  USDS  FBXEOTS*  ¥8 

sway  mth  Lord  Calliston.  Come,  tell  me,  was  it  Lady 
B&lscombe  you  saw  on  that  night  ? ” 

“ I won’t  answer  you.” 

All  that  Norwood  could  do  could  mot  get  any  other 
answer  from  the  obstinate  young  man,  so  in  despair  the 
lawyer  left  him. 

“It's  impossible  to  perform  miracles,”  he  muttered  to 
himself  as  he  went  back  to  his  office,  “ and  if  this  young 
fool  won’t  tell  me  the  whole  tmth  I cannot  see  what  I can 
do.” 

On  arriving  at  his  office  he  found  a lady  waiting  to  see 
him,  and  on  glancing  carelessly  at  the  card  handed  to  him 
by  his  clerk  started  violently. 

“ Miss  Penfold,”  he  said,  “ by  Jove  1 she  was  engaged 
to  Lord  Calliston.  Now  I wonder  what  she  wants  ? ” 

The  young  lady  made  her  appearance,  and  the  door 
being  closed,  soon  enlightened  him  on  that  point 
“You  are  Mr.  Desmond’s  lawyer?”  she  asked. 

“Yes,  I have  that  honour,”  replied  Norwood,  rather 
puzzled  to  know  what  she  had  come  about 

“I — X take  a great  interest  in  Mr.  Desmond,”  said  the 
girl,  hesitating,  “ in  fact,  I’m  engaged  to  him.” 

“ But  I thought  Lord  Calliston ” 

“Lord  Calliston  is  nothing  to  me,”  she  broke  in  im- 
patiently. “ I never  did  like  him,  though  my  guardian 
wished  me  to  marry  him,  and  I love  Myles  Desmond,  if  I 
did  not  I would  not  be  here.” 

“Well,  of  course  I feel  sure  he  is  innocent” 

“ Innocent  1 I never  had  any  doubt  on  the  subject,  but 
I want  to  know  what  chances  there  are  of  proving  his 
innocence.” 

“It  will  be  a difficult  matter,”  said  Norwood  thought- 
fully, “ as  I can  get  him  to  tell  me  nothing.” 

“What  is  it  he  refuses  to  tell  you?”  asked  Miss 
Penfold. 

“ The  name  of  the  lady  whom  he  saw  at  Lord  Calliston’* 
chambers  on  the  night  of  the  murder.  I believe  myself  it 
was  Lady  Balscomfae.” 

“ Lady  Balscombe  ! ” echoed  May  in  astonishment,  “ why 
what  would  take  her  there  ? ” 

“ Perhaps  she  went  to  meet  Lord  Calliston.  The  reason 
why  I think  it’s  she  is  that  Mr.  Desmond  says  he  promised 
the  lady  he  saw  that  he  would  not  speak  without  her  per- 


u 


YR%  PICCADILLY  PU2£m 


mission,  and  then  he  tells  me  he  cannot  speak  till  Lord 
Calliston's  yacht  comes  back,  and  as  Lady  Balscombe  is  the 
only  lady  on  board  it  must  be,  her.* 

* Bit  why  should  he  refuse  to  tell  yon  it  was  her?* 
Norwood  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

“ Well,  it's  hardly  the  thing  for  a lady  to  visit  a chambers 
at  that  hour  of  the  night — her  reputation—* 

44  Her  reputation ! ” repeated  May  Penfold  contemp- 
tuously, “ he  need  not  try  to  save  it  now,  considering  she's 
thrown  it  away  by  eloping  with  Lord  Collision ; but  what 
else  is  there  in  his  favour  ? ” 

“The  principal  thing  is  the  dagger,”  said  Norwood ; 44  he 
told  me  he  took  it  from  Lena  Sarschine  and  brought  it 
home — so  if  his  landlady  or  anyone  else  put  it  away,  they 
must  have  seen  it — and  so  it  will  show  the  truth  of  his 
story.” 

“ Then  in  order  to  find  out  it  will  be  best  to  see  his  land- 
lady.” 

“ Certainly — but  I don't  know  where  he  lives.* 

“ I do-Primrose  Crescent,  Bloomsbury.  You  go  there 
and  find  out  what  you  can.” 

44  I may  as  well  try,”  said  Norwood  thoughtfully,  “but  Pm 
afraid  it's  a forlorn  hope.” 

44  Forlorn  hopes  generally  succeed,”  replied  May  with  a 
confident  smile.  44  So  you  go  to  his  lodgings,  and  then  let 
me  know  the  result  of  your  inquiries.* 

Norwood  agreed  to  this,  and  after  Miss  Penfold  had  de- 
parted called  a cab  and  drove  to  the  address  of  Myles 
Desmond.  Rondalina,  more  wan  and  ghost-like  than  ever, 
opened  the  door  and  informed  the  lawyer  that  Mrs.  Mulgy 
had  gone  out 

“ That's  a pity,”  said  Norwood,  in  a disappointed  tone. 
e<  Are  you  the  servant  ? ” 

44  Yes  sir,”  replied  Rondalina,  dropping  a curtsey. 

44  And  you  attend  to  all  the  lodgers?* 

44  Yes,  sir.” 

u Oh ! then  perhaps  you  can  tdS  me  what  I want  to 
know,”  said  Norwood  cheerfully.  M Take  me  up  to  Mr. 
Desmond's  room.” 

Rondalina,  being  a London  giri,  was  very  sharp,  and 
looked  keenly  at  Mr.  Norwood  to  see  if  he  had  any  design 
of  burglary.  The  scrutiny  proving  satisfactory,  she  led  him 
upstairs,  and  showed  him  Desmond's  sitting  room. 


STYLES  BESMOKD  F»DS  VMhXfoS.  W 

” Now  then,”  said  Norwood,  taking  a seat,  “I  want  you 
to  answer  me  a few  questions.” 

Rondalina  looked  frightened,  and  said,  “Yes,  sir,”  in  a 
mechanical  manner. 

“ First,”  asked  Norwood,  “ do  you  dust  this  room  and  put 
things  straight  ? ” 

“ I do,  sir.” 

“Do  you  remember  seeing  a broken  dagger  about  the 
place— a blade  and  a handle  ? ” 

Rondalina  twisted  her  apron  up  into  a knot  and  thought 
hard,  then  intimated  she  had  seen  it 

“ Oh  ! — and  when  did  you  see  it  ? ” 

“ About  a week  or  so  ago,  sir,”  replied  Rondalina.  “ Mr. 
Desmond,  sir,  he  comes  in  at  five  o'clock  when  I was 
a'layin'  of  the  cloth  for  dinner,  and  ses  he  * I ain't  agoin1 
to  stay  in  for  dinner  'cause  I'm  agoin'  h'out,'  then  he  takes 
the  knife  from  his  pocket,  being  broken  in  two,  and  throws 
the  bits  on  the  table  and  goes  out  to  put  his  clothes  on. 
I takes  the  dinner  things  down  stairs,  and  when  I comes 
up  he  were  gone,  so  I sets  to  work  an'  tidies  up  the  room.” 

“ Was  the  dagger  still  on  the  table  ? ” 

“The  knife,  sir,”  corrected  Rondalina,  “yes,  sir,  it  were, 
and  I puts  the  bits  in  the  h'ornaments  so  as  to  keep  'em 
out  of  the  way  of  the  children,  an'  I 'ope  it  weren't  wrong, 
sir.” 

“No,  not  at  all,”  replied  Norwood,  “but  tell  me,  did 
Mr.  Desmond  come  back  on  that  night  ? ” 

“Yes,  sir — but  not  till  late,  sir — three  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  He  'adn't  his  latch-key,  so  I 'ad  to  git  h'up  and 
let  him  in.” 

“Was  he  sober?” 

“Quite,  sir,  only  he  seemed  upset  like,  and  goes  up  to 
his  room  without  saying  a word.” 

This  was  all  the  information  obtainable  from  Rondalina, 
so  Norwood  departed  from  the  house  very  much  satisfied 
with  what  he  had  discovered.  He  drove  straight  to  Park 
Lane  and  told  May  Penfold  all  Rondalina  had  said. 

“You  see,”  he  said  in  conclusion,  “this  evidence  will 
prove  one  thing,  that  Desmond  could  not  have  committed 
the  crime  with  that  dagger.” 

“ Then  I suppose  they'll  say  he  did  it  with  another,”  said 
May  bitterly. 

* If  they  do  so  they  will  damage  their  own  am**  replied 


H 


TEt  MCCAMLLY  HJ23ELE 


fforwood  coolly,  “ for  Dowker  swears  the  crime  was  com- 
mitted by  this  special  dagger,  and  if  Desmond  did  not  use 
it — as  can  be  proved  by  the  evidence  of  the  servant— hko 
jme  else  could  have  done  505  by-the-way*  you  say  Sis 
Rupert  was  down  at  Berkshire  on  that  night* 

“ He  was,”  replied  May,  44  but  he  came  up  by  a late  train 
and  then  went  to  his  club  shortly  before  twelve.* 

“ Is  he  in  ? ” asked  the  lawyer, 

44  No,  but  you  will  be  able  to  see  him  about  five  o'clock,* 
said  Miss  Penfold,  “he  has  been  shut  up  in  his  library 
since  the  elopement  of  hk  wife,  but  had  to  go  out  to-day 
on  business/* 

44  I'll  call  then.* 

“ What  do  you  want  to  see  hira  about  ? * 

44  I am  anxious  to  ascertain  if  he  knew  his  wife’s  move- 
ments on  that  night,  and  whether  she  left  the  house.” 

44  I don’t  think  he  can  tell  you  that,  as  his  wife  and  he 
were  on  bad  terms  and  occupied  different  rooms ; besides, 
even  if  you  find  out  that  Lady  Babcombe  visited  Lord 
Calliston’s  chambers  on  that  night,  it  won’t  save  Myles/* 

44  I don’t  know  so  much  about  that/’  replied  Norwood, 
cheerfully,  “ it  will  help  to  umave!  this  mystery,  and  when 
everything  is  made  plain  I’m  certain  Myles  Desmond  won’t 
be  the  man  to  suffer  for  th1^scrirne*’# 

CHAPTER  XIV, 

MY  LADY’S  HUSBAND. 

In  the  brilliant  comedies  of  Wycherley,  Moliere,  Goldini, 
and  Lope  de  Vega  the  betrayed  husband  is  always  made  the 
scapegoat  for  the  sins  of  the  lovers,  and  all  the  sympathies  of 
the  dramatists  are  with  the  pretty  wife  and  the  gay  deceiver. 
This  was  the  case  with  poor  Sir  Rupert,  for  though  his  friends 
pitied  him  heartily  for  the  manner  in  which  his  wife  had 
behaved,  yet  they  also  laughed  at  him  for  the  way  in  which 
he  had  allowed  Calliston  to  carry  on  the  intrigue  under  his 
very  nose.  Sir  Rupert  thought  Callistonb  visits  were  to  his 
ward,  but  in  reality  she  was  merely  used  as  a stalking-horse 
to  conceal  the  designs  of  the  young  man  on  Lady  Bala- 
combe.  When  the  blow  came  and  the  lady  eloped,  no  one 
was  surprised  except  the  unsuspecting  husband,  who,  having 
Bused  hia  wife  froro  an  obscure  position  to  & brilliant  one*  and 


m ux>vm  mm 


n 


fhren  her  a H she  could  wish  for,  never  dreamt  for  a moment 
the  would  reward  him  in  so  base  a manner. 

Sir  Rupert,  however,  had  no  idea  of  playing  the  com* 
placent  husband  in  this  case,  and  at  once  proceeded  to  take 
steps  for  a divorce.  The  difficulty  was  to  serve  the  guilty 
pair  with  citations,  for  as  the  yacht  had  gone  to  the  Azores 
there  was  no  chance  of  doing  so  until  she  returned  to 
England,  or  until  she  touched  at  some  civilized  port  easy  to 
be  reached  by  the  long  arm  of  the  law. 

The  baronet  sat  in  his  library  reading  a letter  from  his 
lawyers,  which  informed  him  that  Calliston’s  yacht,  the 
SeamcWy  had  put  into  a French  port  for  repairs  as  she  had 
been  disabled  in  a storm,  and  that  they  had  sent  over  a 
clerk  to  serve  the  citations  at  once.  The  intelligence 
seemed  to  afford  Sir  Rupert  the  greatest  pleasure,  and  he 
threw  down  the  paper  with  a grim  smile.  He  was  a tall, 
fine-looking  man  of  forty-nine,  with  a soldierly  carriage  and 
iron-grey  hair. 

44  She  won’t  find  life  with  Calliston  so  happy  as  she  did  with 
me,”  he  muttered,  walking  up  and  down  the  room.  “ He’ll 
Wot  marry  her  after  she  is  free,  and  then  she’ll  go  from  bad 
to  worse.  I was  a fool  to  make  her  my  wife ; with  the 
instincts  she’s  got  she  would  have  been  just  as  satisfied 
with  being  my  mistress — come  in,”  he  said  aloud,  as  a knock 
came  to  the  door. 

It  opened  and  Miss  Penfold  entered,  followed  by  Nor- 
wood, at  the  sight  of  whom  Sir  Rupert  seemed  surprised, 
but  said  nothing. 

“ This  gentleman  wishes  to  speak  with  you,  Sir  Rupert,” 
said  May,  advancing  towards  the  baronet  “ He  is- — ” 

"A  lawyer,  I know,”  replied  Sir  Rupert,  coldly  pushing  a 
chair  towards  his  ward,  “I’ve  seen  him  in  court — and 
what  is  the  object  of  your  visit,  sir  ? ” he  said,  turning  to 
Norwood. 

“ I’ve  called  to  see  you  about  this  arrest  of  Myles  t)es- 
mond  for  the  murder  of  Lena  Sarschine,”  says  Norwood, 
placing  his  hat  on  the  table. 

44 1 know  nothing  about  him,”  replied  the  baronet,  look- 
ing angrily  at  May.  “Why  do  you  come  to  me  for 
information  ? ” 

“Because  we  want  to  save  Mr.  Desmond’#  life,”  said 

May  boldly. 

41  Hi#  life— a murderer  ? • 


m 


THE  PICCADILLY  PUZZLE. 


“ He  is  no  murderer,”  said  the  young  girl  quickly.  u Ap« 
pe&rances  are  against  him,  but  he  is  innocent.” 

“I  believe  you  love  the  fellow  still,”  said  Balscombe, 
contemptuously. 

u So  much  that  I'm  going  to  marry  him,”  she  replied. 

“You  may  do  so,  if  he  escapes  the  gallows,  which  I 
doubt,”  retorted  the  baronet. 

“I  do  not  doubt,”  interposed  Norwood  quietly;  “I  am 
certain  Mr.  Desmond  is  innocent  and  could  clear  himself 
but  for  some  absurd  idea  of  honour.” 

“ And  what's  all  this  got  to  do  with  me  ? * asked  Bals- 
combe  haughtily. 

“Simply  this,  that  I have  reason  to  believe  Lady  Bate- 
combe  had  something  to  do  with  the  case.” 

“Lady  Balscombe!”  echoed  Sir  Rupert,  turning  pale 
with  fury.  “Take  care,  sir,  take  care.  My  affairs  have 
nothing  to  do  with  you,  and  Lady  Balscombe's  folly  is  quite 
apart  from  this — this  murder.” 

“ I think  not,”  answered  Norwood  quietly,  “ for  in  my 
opinion  Lady  Balscombe  left  this  house  and  went  to  Lord 
Calliston's  chambers  on  the  night  of  the  murder  and  saw 
Mr.  Desmond.”  , 

“ Did  Mr.  Desmond  tell  you  this  ? ” said  Balscombe  in  a 
nervous  voice. 

“No,  Mr.  Desmond  refuses  to  tell  anything,”  rejoined 
Norwood,  “ but  I am  certain  it  was  Lady  Balscombe,  and 
as  you  came  up  from  Berkshire  on  that  night  I thought 
you  might  tell  me  at  what  hour  Lady  Balscombe  went  out  ? * 

“ I am  no  spy  on  my  wife's  movements,”  retorted  the 
baronet  haughtily.  “ I came  up  from  Berkshire,  it  is  true, 
and  understood  from  my  servants  that  my  wife  was  in  her 
room.  As  we  were  not  on  good  terms  I did  not  see  her, 
but  went  straight  to  my  club.  From  there  I did  not  return 
till  about  three  in  the  morning.  I then  went  to  bed  and 
did  not  know  of  Lady  Balscombe's  flight  till  next  morning 
when  it  was  too  late  to  stop  her.  So,  you  see,  I can  tell 
you  nothing.” 

Norwood  was  about  to  reply  when  a knock  came  to  the 
door  and  the  servant,  entering,  gave  a card  to  Sir  Rupert, 
which  he  glanced  at  and  then  handed  to  Norwood 

“ Here  is  the  detective  who  has  the  case  in  hand,”  he 
said  quietly.  “ Perhaps,  if  you  question  him  you  may  find 
out  what  you  want  to  know.  Show  the  gentleman  in.* 


KX  LADTS  HUSBAND, 


79 

“DowkePs  a clever  man,”  said  Norwood,  when  the  ser 
rant  had  retired;  “he  arrested  Desmond,  so  I presume  he 
has  come  here  to  get  evidence  against  him.  Now,  Miss 
Penfold,  we  must  put  our  wits  against  his.” 

“ Yes,  and  between  the  two  stools  poor  Desmond  will 
fall  to  the  ground,”  replied  the  baronet,  with  a cold  smile. 
“ Here  is  your  detective.” 

Mr.  Dowker,  being  announced  by  the  servant,  catered 
the  room  quietly,  and  bowed  first  to  Miss  Penfold  and  then 
to  Sir  Rupert 

“ How  do  you  do  Mr.  Norwood  ? ” he  said  caimly.  “ I 
did  not  think  to  meet  you  here,  but  I suppose  we're  on  the 
same  errand.” 

“ Not  quite,”  replied  Norwood.  “You  want  to  destroy 
Myles  Desmond.  I wish  to  save  him.” 

“There  you  are  wrong,”  said  Dowker,  placing  his  hat 
beside  a chair  and  taking  his  seat.  “ I want  to  save  him 
also.” 

“ Save  him  ? * cried  May,  starting  up. 

“ Yes ; because  I believe  him  to  be  innocent” 

“ Then  why  arrest  him  ? ” asked  Norwood. 

Dowker  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

“The  evidence  against  him  was  too  strong  to  permit  him 
being  at  large,  but  from  what  I have  learnt  lately  1 have 
reason  to  believe  he  is  not  the  guilty  man.” 

This  remark,  coming  from  such  a source,  produced  the 
profoundest  impression  in  the  mind  of  May  Penfold,  and 
Norwood  himself  seemed  relieved,  while  the  baronet  stood 
on  the  hearthrug  and  looked  stolidly  on. 

“ Then  we  can  work  together  ? ” said  the  lawyer. 

“Yes ; to  prove  the  innocence  of  Mr.  Desmond,”  replied 
Dowker.  “And  in  doing  so  we  will  discover  the  real 
criminal.” 

“ And  now,”  observed  Balscombe  in  a cold  voice,  “ having 
settled  this  little  matter  about  helping  Mr.  Desmond,  whom 
I sincerely  trust  will  be  proved  innocent  of  this  charge, 
perhaps,  Mr.  Dowker,  you  will  inform  me  the  reason  o t 
your  visit  ? * 

“Certainly,  sir,”  replied  Dowker  deliberately.  “I  want 
to  ask  you  some  questions  about  Lady  Balscombe.” 

Two  of  his  listeners  looked  at  him  in  surprise,  struck  by 
the  singularity  of  the  coincidence  that  he  should  have 
called  on  exactly  the  same  ercand  as  they  did. 


m iraos  ncoAi>iLLX  mzzm. 

M1  wish  to  know,""  said  Dowker,  “if  you  are  aware  thaf 
your  wife  called  at  I*ord  Calliston’s  chambers  on  the  nighl 
of  the  murder  ? ” 

“ Who  says  so  ? ” asked  Balscombe,  harshly. 

“ No  one,”  replied  the  detective ; “ but  did  she  ? * 

“ I cannot  tell  you,”  said  Sir  Rupert ; and  he  gave  the 
same  account  of  his  movements  on  the  night  in  question  as 
he  had  done  to  Norwood. 

“ Oh,”  said  Dowker,  stroking  his  chin;  “so  you  were  in 

town  after  all  on  that  night  ? ” 

* Sir  Rupert  looked  uncomfortable  under  the  steady  gaze 
of  the  detective,  and  blurted  out,  somewhat  confusedly,  that 

he  was. 

“And  you,”  questioned  Dowker,  turning  to  Norwood, 
“ think  it  was  Lady  Balscombe  that  Desmond  saw  ? ” 

“Yes;  because  he  said  he  could  not  get  permission  to 
speak  except  from  the  lady  on  board  The  Seamew>  and 
the  lady  we  know  is  Sir  Ruperts  wife.” 

“ But  Lady  Balscombe  did  not  leave  this  house  till  after 
twelve  o’clodc,  and  as  the  woman  saw  Mr.  Desmond 
before  that  time  it  could  not  have  possibly  been  Lady 
Balscombe.” 

“ How  do  you  know  my  wife  did  not  leave  till  after 
twelve  ? ” demanded  Balscombe. 

“ From  the  evidence  of  her  maid,  Anne  Lifford.” 

“ Yes,  she  told  me  tb# • sam©  thing,”  interposed  May, 
“ and  if  that  is  so,  well—''  sne  looked  at  the  other  three  in 
helpless  confusion. 

“ As  Mr.  Desmond  refuses  to  give  us  any  information,” 
said  Dowker,  “ the  only  thing  to  be  done  is  to  wait  and 
find  out  the  truth  from  Lady  Balscombe  herself.” 

“What  could  she  know  about  this  woman’s  death?” 
asked  Sir  Rupert. 

“ She  might  not  know  much,”  replied  Dowker,  sig- 
nificantly, “ but  enough  to  show  in  what  way  her  sister  met 
her  death.” 

“ Her  sister  ! ” echoed  the  others  in  surprise. 

“Yes,  I have  ascertained  Lena  Sarschine  to  have  been  the 
sister  of  Lady  Balscombe.” 

“ Are  you  mad  ? ” said  the  baronet  angrily.  “ Do  you 
know  who  my  wife  was  ? ” 

“ I do.  The  daughter  of  Captain  Michael  Dicksfall  of 
Folkestone — he  had  two  daughters,  twins,  one,  Miss  Helena 


MY  LADY'S  HUSBAm 


m 

B&cfesfafl,  ran  a ray  with  Lord  Calliston  three  years  ago  and 
became  his  mistress  under  the  name  of  Lena  S&rschine, 
the  other,  Miss  Amelia  Dic&sfall,  married  Sir  Rupert 
Balscornbe/' 

The  baronet  sank  into  his  seat  looking  pale  and  haggard. 

<g  My  God,*  he  muttered,  “ this  is  worse  and  worse.  I 
knew  Amelia  had  a twin  sister,  but  understood  she  was 
dead.* 

44  Dead  as  Helena  Dicksfall,  not  as  Lena  Sarschine/' 

“ Could  Lady  Balscombe  have  had  any  interest  in  her 
sister's  death?  M asked  Norwood,  in  a puzzled  tone. 

“ For  heaven*#  sake  don't  make  her  out  to  be  & mur- 
deress,* said  Sir  Rupert  vehemently,  " she's  bad  enough 
as  it  is,  but  surely  she  would  not  go  so  far  as — as — 
murder/' 

44 1 don't  know,”  said  Dowker  brutally,  n they  both  loved 
the  same  man,  and  when  women  are  jealous,  well  there's  the 
devil  to  pay." 

At  this  moment  a servant  entered  with  a telegram  which 
he  handed  to  Sir  Rupert  Tearing  it  open  the  baronet 
glanced  hastily  over  it  and  then  sprung  to  his  feet 

M Now  we  will  know  the  truth,"  he  said  triumphantly. 

15  What  do  you  mean  ? * asked  May,  trembling  in  every 
limb. 

44  Simply  this,*  said  her  guardian,  crushing  up  the  tele- 
gram in  his  hand,  M the  Seamcw  is  on  her  way  to  England." 


CHAPTER  XV, 

a ®T«rUNG  DISCOVERY. 

Perhaps  among  all  his  friends  Myles  had  no  warmer 
supporter  than  Spencer  Eilersby.  The  young  man 
appeared  to  be  genuinely  sorry  that  his  evidence  about 
meeting  Desmond  in  St  James'  Street  should  be  used 
against  him. 

44  Hang  it  l"  he  said  to  Marton,  as  they  were  seated  at 
their  club,  M if  I had  only  known  how  it  would  have  been 
twisted,  I'd  not  have  said  a word,  but  that  detective  fellow 
got  it  out  of  me  somehow — brute  of  a fellow— killed  my 
dog,  you  know.  Pickles." 

* Well,  I hear  they'll  not  be  able  to  prove  the  digger  in 

$ 


THE  PICCADILLY  TUZZlM 


Desmond's  possession  was  the  one  used,”  said  Marion, 
‘'good  for  poor  old  Myles — hey  ! ” 

“ I think  it’s  d — d rubbish,  the  whole  thing,”  retorted 
Ellersby,  hotly;  “what  the  deuce  should  Myles  kill  this 
woman  for,  she  was  nothing  to  him ; more  likely  Cailiston 
knows  more  about  it.” 

“ Well,  heTl  soon  be  asked  at  all  events/'  said  Marton, 
with  a chuckle.  “ The  Seamens  back  at  Brighton.” 

“ What ! ” cried  Ellersby  astonished.  “ And  Lady 
Balscombe  ? ” 

“Oh,  she's  on  board  also,”  said  Marton.  “Sir  Rupert 
has  gone  down,  I hear,  to  see  his  wife — what  a deuce  of 
a row  there'll  be,  hey  1 99  and  the  old  reprobate  rubbed  his 

hands. 

“Well,  there  is  one  thing  to  be  said,”  observed  Ellersby 
ringing  for  a brandy  and  soda,  “ Cailiston  can't  marry 
Miss  Penfold  now.” 

“ All  the  better  for  Desmond,  dear  boy,  hey  ? * 

“I  don’t  see  that,”  retorted  Ellersby  coolly,  “even  if 
Desmond's  acquitted,  he'll  have  a stain  on  his  name — she 
won't  marry  him.” 

“ Hey  ! ” said  The  Town  crier,  all  on  the  alert  for  news. 

“ What  do  you  mean  ? ” 

“ Simply  this,  that  I'm  going  to  have  a look  in  at  the 

heiress  myself.” 

“Bosh!” 

“ Fact,  the  matrimonial  stakes  are  open  to  any  one,  and 
I don't  see  why  Miss  Penfold  shouldn't  marry  me.* 

“ She  might  if  Desmond  was  out  of  the  way,  but  as  it  ia— 
pish  t 99 

“ Well,  we'll  see,”  retorted  Ellersby,  lighting  a cigarette. 
“ I’ve  fallen  in  love  with  her,  and  I’m  going  to  ask  her  to  be 
my  wife.” 

v Bet  you  a hundred  to  one  she  don't  have  you,”  said 
Marton,  producing  his  pocket  book. 

“ Done,”  and  the  bet  was  booked  immediately. 

“ Why  hang  it,”  said  Marton,  when  this  little  transaction 
was  concluded,  “ you're  not  fit  to  marry— drink,  dear  boy- 
bad  thing,  hey  ? *' 

“ Oh,  I’M  give  all  that  sort  of  thing  up  wh$a  I'm  married,” 
replied  Ellersby,  carelessly. 

“ YouTl  have  to  give  up  half  your  life  then,”  retorted  hi* 
friend  rudely,  “ for  you  always  seem  to  be  at  the  brandy 
bottle.” 


A STABTLING  DISCOVERY, 


Ellersby  laughed,  in  nowise  offended. 

* If  you  had  had  as  many  agues  and  fevers  as  I have, 
you’d  be  at  it  too ; but  you  needn’t  be  afraid,  when  I 
become  Benedict  I’ll  take  the  pledge.  By  the  way,  come 
and  s.'e  m3'  new  rooms,  I’ve  got  ’em  all  done  up.” 

“ Right,  dear  boy,  right, ^ said  Marton,  > and  the  two 
gentlemen  teft  the  club  chatting  about  the  Piccadilly 
murder  and  the  possible  result  thereof. 

While  this  interesting  conversation  was  going  on,  Sir 
Rupert,  Dowk^r,  and  Norwood  were  all  in  a first-class 
carriage  on  theii  *ray  to  Brighton.  As  Marton  had  in- 
formed Ellersby,  the  Seamew  had  returned  to  England  the 
previous  day,  and  now  the  trio  were  going  down  to  see  if 
Lady  Balscombe  could  give  them  any  information  likely 
to  solve  the  mystery  of  the  murder  of  Lena  Sarschine.  Of 
course  Sir  Rupert  fully  recognised  the  truth  of  the  proverb 
“ Every  man  for  himself,”  but  now  the  guilty  passion 
of  his  wife  appeared  a secondary  consideration  to  the 
desire  of  saving  an  innocent  man  from  a shameful  death. 

On  the  way  down,  Norwood  told  Dowker  the  discovery 
he  had  made  about  the  dagger,  at  which  the  detective  was 
much  astonished. 

“ If,  as  you  say,”  he  remarked,  “ the  lodging-house 
servant  can  prove  the  broken  dagger  was  in  the  house 
all  the  time,  it  certainly  cannot  have  been  the  weapon 
used,  and  yet  it  corresponds  in  every  particular  with  the 
other  weapon  I took  from  Cleopatra  Villa.  I,  can  quite 
understand  Miss  Sarschine  taking  it  and  the  manner  in 
which  it  came  into  Desmond’s  possession,  but  if  this  was 
not  the  weapon  used,  where  is  the  weapon  that  was.” 

“ There  are  plenty  of  these  daggers,”  suggested 
Norwood. 

“ Certainly — but  the  coincidence  in  this  case  is  that  the 
dagger  found  in  Mr.  Desmond’s  rooms,  which  came  from  the 
house  of  the  murdered  woman,  was  poisoned,  and  Lena 
Sarschine  was  killed  by  a poisoned  instrument” 

“ There  were  no  other  daggers  taken  from  the  house  I 
suppose  ? ” asked  Norwood. 

“Not  that  I know  of,”  replied  the  detective,  “but  I am 
convinced  that  the  whole  secret  of  this  crime  lies  in  the 
conversation  between  Mr.  Desmond  and  Lady  Balscombe.” 

“You  do  not  say  my  wife  is  guilty  of  this  murder?”  said 
Sir  Rupert  angrily. 


u 


mB  PICCADILLY  PUZZL1, 


“ I say  nothing,”  replied  Dowker  evasively,  M till  I tec 

Lady  Balscombe.” 

When  the  trio  arrived  at  Brighton  it  was  growing  late,  so 
they  went  to  the  “ Ship”  Hotel  and  had  something  to 
eat.  Finding  out  from  the  waiter  that  the  Se&mtw  was 
lying  a short  distance  from  the  pier  they  went  down,  and 
hiring  a boat  rowed  to  the  yacht  When  they  climbed  up 
on  to  the  deck  they  were  accosted  by  o no  of  the  officers, 
who  wanted  to  know  their  business. 

“We  want  to  see  Lord  Calliston,”  said  Balscombe 
quietly. 

“I'm  afraid  that's  impossible,”  replied  the  officer,  “as 
he  went  up  to  town  to-day  on  business,” 

^ Is  there  not  a lady  on  board  ? n asked  Norwood 

“Yes — you  mean- ” 

“ Never  mind  telling  us  her  name,”  said  Bakcombs 
shortly,  feeling  a horror  at  hearing  his  wife's  name  mentiond 
“ Can  we  see  her  ? ” 

“ I will  ask,”  answered  the  officer,  and  he  went  down- 
stairs to  the  cabin,  from  which  he  soon  reascendcd  with  th® 
news  that  they  could  go  down. 

Dowker  went  first,  followed  by  Norwood  and  Sir  Rupert, 
all  feeling  in  a strange  state  of  excitement  at  the  prospect 
of  the  coming  interview. 

The  cabin  was  small,  but  luxuriously  .fitted  up  in  pale 
blue  silk,  and  the  walls  panelled  in  oak,  with  small  medal- 
lions of  seascapes  around.  A lamp  hanging  from  the 
ceiling  shed  a soft  mellow  light  over  all,  and  on  the  table 
below  was  a work-basket  and  some  embroidery. 

“ She  has  been  working,  I see,”  whispered  Balscornbe  with 
a sneer  as  they  entered  into  the  cabin.  No  one  was  present, 
but  suddenly  they  heard  the  rustle  of  a dress,  and  a curtain 
at  the  end  of  the  cabin  parted  admitting  a woman — a tall 
fair  faced  woman,  with  shining  golden  hair. 

At  this  sight  Norwood  and  Dowker  turned  to  look  on  Sir 
Rupert,  to  watch  the  effect  of  the  sight  of  his  wife  on 
him,  when  they  saw  he  was  pale  as  death  and  had  made  a 
step  forward. 

“ You  wish  to  see  me  ? ” asked  the  Lady,  advancing  towards 
the  groetp. 

“You — you- — cried  Sir  Rupert  in  a chokad  waico. 
“ You  are  not  Lady  Balscomhe.” 

u 1 1 * in  surprise  w No  I — I am  Mt  I*dy  BaisGomta." 


MORE  KEtELATlOm 


m 


Bowker  and  Norwood  tamed  suddenly* 

u Who  axe  you  ? * 

•Lcaa  Sarschinel" 


CHAPTER  XVL 

MORE  REVELATIONS. 

If  there  ever  were  three  men  taken  aback,  those  three  were 
certainly  in  the  cabin  of  the  Sea  mew  — as  for  Miss 
Sarschine,  she  stood  looking  calmly  at  them  with  an  ex* 
pression  of  surprise. 

“ Will  you  kindly  tell  me  what  you  want  ? ” she  asked 
quietly — 41  Is  it  to  see  Lord  Calliston  ? ” 

“No,"  replied  Dowker,  who  had  somewhat  recovered 
himself,  e<  wc  wanted  to  see  you.” 

M To  see  me  ? ” she  said  with  surprise. 
u Or  at  least,  Lady  Balscombe.” 

Miss  Sarschine  smiled  contemptuously. 
u I undersold  what  you  mean,”  she  said  coolly.  44  You 
thought  that  Lord  Calliston  had  eloped  with  Lady  Bals- 
combe— so  he  intended  to  have  done,  but  I changed  his 
plans  and  doped  instead.” 

11  And  where  did  you  leave  Lady  Balscombe  on  the  night 
you  visited  her  ? ” asked  Norwood. 

“ I do  not  answer  that  question  till  I know  who  you  are,” 
she  said  boldly,  frowning  at  him. 

u I will  tell  you,”  said  Sir  Rupert,  who  had  hitherto  kept 
silent  " This  gentleman  is  Mr.  Norwood,  a solicitor — this 
Mr.  Dowker  of  Scotland  Yard — and  I am  Sir  Rupert 
Balscombe.” 

“ You — you  Sir  Rupert  Balscombe,”  she  said  quickly. 
w Your  sister's  husband.” 

41  How  do  you  know  Lady  Balscombe  was  my  sister  ? ” 

* I found  it  out,”  interposed  Dowker,  44  from  your  father, 
Captain  Dicksfall.” 

“ My  father,”  she  murmured,  turning  pale,  “ you  have 
seen  him  ? ” 

44  Yes.” 

**  Well,”  she  said  coldly,  14  now  you  have  found  out  my 
relationship  with  Lacjy  Balscombe,  what  do  you  want  to  see 

me  about  ? ” 

44  Her  murder,”  said  Dowker  in  a deep  voice 


8* 


THE  PICCADILLY  PUZZLE. 


I 

She  sprang  forward  with  a sudden  cry. 

t(  Her  murder — her — what  do  you  mean  ? ” 

“ I mean  that  the  victim  of  the  Jermyn  Street  murdet, 
whom  we  thought  to  be  you,  turns  out  to  be  Lady  Rais- 
combe.” 

“ My  wife  ! ” said  Sir  Rupert  with  a groan,  burying  his 
face  in  his  hands, 

“ God ! — it's  too  horrible,1 ” cried  Lena,  and  sank  down 
into  a chair.  “ Amelia  dead — murdered — by  whom  ? ” 

“That’s  what  we  want  to  find  out,”  said  Norwood  coldly. 

“ What  enemies  had  she  ? ” muttered  Miss  Sarschine  half 
to  herself — “ none  that  would  desire  her  death — I cannot 
understand.  I cannot,” — then  suddenly  struck  by  a thought 
she  asked,  “Why  did  you  think  the  dead  woman  was 
me?  ” 

“ Because  she  was  dressed  in  your  clothes.” 

“Yes!  yes!”  she  said  feverishly.  “I  can  understand 
now — I can  understand.” 

“ Where  did  you  see  her  last  ? ” asked  Norwood. 

“ At  her  own  house  in  Park  Lane.”  ‘ 

“ Did  you  leave  her  there  ? ” 

“No  ! she  left  me.” 

“ Oh  ! ” cried  Dowker,  a light  breaking  in  on  him,  “ now 
I understand — you  changed  clothes  there,  and  she  left  the 
house  first.” 

“She  did — to  go  to  Calliston’s  rooms.” 

“I  thought  so,”  said  Norwood  with  a cry  of  triumph, 
“it  was  Lady  Balscombe  Desmond  saw.” 

“ Desmond  ! Desmond ! ” she  echoed.  “What  has  he 
to  do  with  this  ? ” 

“ Simply  this — he  is  now  in  prison  on  a charge  of  murder- 
ing Lena  Sarschine.” 

“ I see  you  mistook  my  sister  for  me — but  murder — I 
can’t  understand — I can’t  understand,”  and  she  pressed  hei 
hand  across  her  forehead. 

Sir  Rupert  looked  up. 

“Listen  to  me,”  he  said  sternly,  “a  man’s  life  hangs  on 
your  evidence,  so  tell  us  all  that  happened  between  you  and 
my  wife  on  that  night.” 

There  was  a carafe  of  water  on  the  table,  and  filling  a 
glass  from  it  Lena  drank  it  up  quickly,  and  then  turned 
with  ashen  face  to  the  three  men,  who  sat  cold  and  silent 
before  hen 


mom 


w I w!H  tel!  you  all,*  she  said  in  a shaky  voice,  M and  yon 
can  form  your  own  conclusions.” 

The  three  settled  themselves  to  listen,  and  she  began  to 
speak,  in  a trembling  voice,  which  gradually  became 
steadier,  the  following  story : 

“ I need  not  tell  you  my  early  history,  as  you  already 
know  it.  When  I left  Folkestone  I went  abroad  with  Lord 
Calliston,  and  when  we  returned  he  took  the  house  for  me 
in  St  John's  Wood.  I stayed  with  him,  because  I loved 
him,  and  he  promised  to  marry  me — a promise  he  has  since 
fulfilled.  jWhen  my  sister  became  known  in  London  as 
Lady  Balscombe  I soon  found  it  out  from  Calliston,  and 
then  implored  him  to  make  me  his  wife — he  laughed,  and 
said  he  would — then  my  sister  fell  in  love  with  him — not  he 
with  her,  I swear,  for  he  loves  no  one  but  me,  and  in  the 
end  she  persuaded  him  to  elope  with  her.  I discovered  the 
fact  from  my  maid,  who  learned  it  from  Lady  Balscombe's 
maid,  Anne  Lifford,  and  in  despair  I went  to  see  Calliston, 
and  implore  him  to  give  up  the  mad  idea.  Blinded  with 
rage  and  despair,  I took  a dagger  from  the  wall  of  my 
drawing-room  intending  to  kill  Calliston  if  he  did  not  agree 
to  give  up  my  sister — sounds  melodramatic,  I know,  but 
look  what  I had  at  stake ! Calliston  was  not  in,  and  I only 
saw  Mr.  Desmond,  who  tried  to  persuade  me  to  go  home 
again.  He  tried  to  get  the  dagger  from  me,  and  I flung  it 
across  the  room.  By  accident,  he  put  his  foot  on  it,  and 
broke  it.  So  seeing  it  was  useless,  I made  no  further 
attempt  to  get  it,  and  he  put  the  pieces  in  his  pocket 
Then  I went  home  in  despair,  but  could  not  rest  I went 
out  with  the  intention  of  catching  an  early  train  to  Shore- 
ham,  concealing  myself  on  board  the  yacht,  and  then 
confront  my  sister  when  she  arrived. 

“ Then  I thought  I would  call  and  implore  her  to  give 
up  my  lover.  She  had  gone  to  a ball,  but  I waited  for  her, 
and  when  she  came  into  the  room  revealed  myself.  We 
had  a stormy  scene — she  refused  to  give  Calliston  up,  and, 
at  length,  the  only  thing  I could  obtain  from  her  was  this, 
that  she  would  go  to  Calliston's  chambers,  ask  him  if 
his  love  was  for  her  or  me,  and  when  she  got  his  answer 
return  to  me  at  Park  Lane.  I agreed  to  this,  but  proposed, 
as  she  would  compromise  herself  in  going  to  a bachelor's 
rooms  at  that  hour  of  the  night,  that  she  should  put  on  my 
and.  as  we  were  very  like  one  another,  she  could 


m 


THE  PICCADILLY  PU WHBL 


pass  herself  jfF  far  me  in  the  event  of  discovery.  We 
changed  cl  ones,  and  she  went  away  while  I remained  ariti 
locked  myself  in  her  room.  I waited  nearly  all  night  for 
her  return)  but  as  she  did  not  come  I left  the  house  about 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  went  to  London  Bridge 
Station,  where  I caught  the  5.45  train  to  Shoreham. 
I was  dressed  in  Lady  Balscombe's  clothes,  and  went 
.straight  on  board  the  yacht  without  awaking  suspicion,  as 
they  were  expecting  my  sister.  I went  into  my  cabin,  and 
fell  asleep,  worn  out  with  the  events  of  the  night  When  I 
woke,  about  ten  o'clock,  I found  we  were  on  our  way,  and 
that  Lord  Calliston  was  on  board.  Being  told  that  Lady 
Ealscombe  wa§  on  board  asleep,  he  did  not  trouble  himself 
to  see  me,  or  else  he  would  have  discovered  the  truth,  but 
said  I was  not  to  be  disturbed,  and  gave  orders  for  the 
yacht  to  start  When  he  did  see  me  I need  hardly  tell  you 
his  surprise.  I told  him  all,  and  we  had  a terrible  battle 
over  things.  He  wanted  to  go  back  again  to  England,  but 
I swore  Td  throw  myself  overboard  if  he  did,  so  he  yielded, 
and  in  the  end  we  made  it  up.  We  started  for  the  Azores, 
but  the  yacht  became  disabled  in  a storm,  and  put  in  to  a 
French  port,  where  we  were  married  by  the  English  Consul. 
Then  we  started  back  for  England  and  arrived  yesterday. 
Lord  Calliston  went  up  to  town  on  business,  and  I remained 
here,  so  that  is  all  I know  of  the  affair." 

“ Then  you  are  now  Lady  Calliston  ? " said  Sir  Rupert 

“Yes,  he  has  done  me  that  justice  at  last." 

“ Then  I hope  you'll  have  a happier  life  and  end  than 
your  sister,"  said  the  baronet,  bitterly ; “ but  even  what  you 
have  told  us  does  not  solve  the  mystery  of  her  death.” 

“ It  solves  a good  many  things,  however,"  said  Dowker, 
cheerfully,  “ it  proves  the  truth  of  Mr.  Desmond's  state- 
ment about  the  dagger,  and  shows  us  how  it  was  Lady 
Balscombe  went  to  Lord  Calliston's  chambers  instead  of 
Miss  Sarschine — I beg  pardon,  Lady  Calliston — but  tell 
me,  madame,  did  your  husband  know  of  the  murder  before 
he  left  England  ? " 

“No;  how  could  he?"  she  said,  in  surprise.  “He 
came  down  to  Shoreham  by  an  early  train  and  the  yacht 
left  at  once.” 

“ But  he  would  be  sure  to  see  about  it  in  the  morning 
papers?"  suggested  Norwood. 

“ He  would  only  see  the  announcement,  but  no  detail*," 


mm  am^iATiom. 


m 

s&W  I>owker,  M and  thinking  L&dy  Balscoxnbe  was  on  board 
the  yacht,  and  Miss  Sarschine  at  home,  he  would  never  think 
either  of  them  was  the  victim/51 

“ Well,  gentlemen/1  said  Sir  Rupert,  turning  his  haggard 
face  towards  them,  “now  we  have  discovered  the  dead 
woman  to  have  been  my  wife,  what  is  the  next  thing  to  be 
done  ? ” 

“See  Lord  Calliston,”  answered  Dowker,  promptly. 
“ I want  to  know  all  his  movements  on  that  night.” 

“You  don't  suspect  him,”  said  Lena,  turning  on  him 
like  a tiger. 

“ I never  said  I did,”  he  replied  quietly.  “ I merely 
want  to  find  out  his  movements,  and  I daresay  hell  have 
no  hesitation  in  giving  an  account  of  them.” 

“Of  course  he  won't,”  she  replied  wearily,  “and  now,  as 
I've  told  you  all,  you'll  permit  me  to  retire.  I'm  quite 
worn  out" 

She  bowed  to  the  three  men,  then  left  the  cabin  slowly. 
When  she  disappeared,  Dowker  shook  himself  briskly. 

“ Well,  gentlemen,  we  must  go  back  to  town  at  once,  and 
see  Lord  Calliston.  1 want  an  account  of  all  his  move- 
ments on  that  night,  and  i already  know  where  he  was  at 
nine  o'clock.” 

“Where?”  asked  Norwood,  curiously. 

“At  the  ‘Pink  'Un/  Soho,  to  see  a boxing-match — after- 
wards I don't  know  where  he  went,  but  I must  have  a 
satisfactory  explanation." 

“ But  you  don't  think  he  murdered  Lady  Balscombe  ? w 
said  the  baronet. 

Dowker  looked  wise. 

“No,”  he  replied,  significantly,  “I  don't  think  he 
murdered  Lady  Bsdscombe*  but  he  might  have  murdered 
Lena  Sarschine." 

“You  mean  be  might  hmt  mistook  my  wife  for  hia 
mistress.” 

u Exactly  { * 


m 


MS  PICCADILLY  PUZ&LS. 


CHAPTER  XVIL 

THE  PRODIGALS  RETURN. 

Mrs.  Povy  was  delighted  to  see  Calliston  back  again,  but 
she  was  not  going  to  betray  any  exultation,  as  she  did  not 
think  him  worthy  of  it,  so  received  him  with  great  dignity 
and  formality.  Lord  Calliston,  a tall,  slender,  dissipated 
young  man,  noticed  the  restraint  of  her  manners  and 
commented  thereon  at  once. 

“ What’s  the  matter  with  you,  Totty,”  he  asked, 
jocularly.  “ You  are  as  cross  as  two  sticks — anyone  been 
proposing  to  you  ? ” 

“I  wouldn’t  have  them  if  they  had,”  snapped  Totty. 
“No,  my  lord,  there  ain’t  nothing  the  matter  with  me  as 
far  as  I’m  aware.” 

“ Now,  Mrs.  Povy,  that’s  nonsense,”  returned  Calliston, 
disbelievingly.  “ You’re  cross  about  something.” 

“Which  ain’t  to  be  wondered  at,”  burst  out  Totty, 
wrathfully.  “Not  ’avin’  bin  brought  up  to  being  badgered 
and  worrited  by  policemen.” 

Calliston  turned  round  in  his  chair,  and  looked  at  he* 
keenly. 

“ What  do  you  mean  ? ” he  asked,  sharply. 

“ What  I say,  my  lord,”  replied  Totty.  “ After  you  ’ad 
gone  some  policeman,  called  Dowker,  or  Bowker,  came 
here  and  wanted  to  know  all  about  you.” 

“ Oh,  Dowker  !'”  said  Calliston,  thoughtfully,  “ th&fs 
the  detective  that  arrested  poor  old  Myles.” 

“You  know  all  about  it  then,  my  lord ?”  said  Totty, 
quickly. 

“ I couldn’t  be  in  London  twenty-four  hours  without 
knowing  something  of  the  Jermyn  Street  affair,”  replied 
Calliston,  coolly.  “ I know  that  a woman  was  found  dead, 
and  they  arrested  my  cousin  as  the  murderer,  thinking  the 
woman  was  Lena  Sarschine.” 

“ And  ’aint  she  ? ” gasped  Mrs.  Povy. 

“No,  it  was  Lady  Balscombe  that  was  murdered,* 


*HB  PRODIGAL'S  RETURN. 


01 

*But  I thought  she  Trent  off  with  you  ?* 

•‘Well,  she  didn't — shows  i’rn  not  as  black  as  Fm 
painted,"  replied  the  young  man,  “ but  thp  worst  of  it  is 
they  seem  to  think  Fm  mixed  up  in  the  affair,  and  the 
detective  was  down  at  Brighton  yesterday  to  see  me.  T 
quite  expect  a call  from  him  this  morning  to  find  out  what 
I know  about  the  row." 

“You  don't  think  Mr.  Desmond  guilty,  do  you,  my 
Lord  ? " asked  Mrs.  Povy,  anxiously. 

“ Pish  ! what  a question  to  ask,"  said  Calliston,  con« 
temptuously,  “ you've  been  with  our  family  for  a long  time, 
Mrs.  Povy,  and  you  ought  to  know  our  character  by  this  time 
— Hullo  ! " as  a knock  came  to  the  door,  “ who's  that  ? " 

The  door  opened  and  his  valet  entered,  soft-footed  and 
deferential. 

“A  gentleman  to  see  you,  my  lord,”  he  said,  handing 
Calliston  a card. 

“ Humph  ! I thought  so/*  said  Calliston,  glancing  at  the 
card;  “show  Mr.  Dowker  up,  Locker." 

Looker  retired,  and  Mrs.  Povy  was  about  to  follow/  his 
example  when  Calliston  stopped  her. 

“ Don't  go,  Mrs.  Povy,"  he  said,  authoritatively,  “ you 
saw  this  man  before,  so  you  can  hear  our  interview — I may 
have  to  ask  you  something." 

Totty  acquiesced  obediently,  and  went  over  to  the 
window  while  Locker,  showing  Mr.  Dowker  into  the  room, 
retired,  closing  the  door  after  him.  Calliston  opened  the 
conversation  at  once. 

“Your  name  is  Dowker — you  are  a detective — you 
want  to  see  me  about  the  Jermyn  Street  murder  ?” 

“ Quite  correct,  my  lord,"  replied  Dowker,  quietly, 
though  rather  astonished  at  the  business  like  tone  as- 
sumed by  Calliston.  “ I want  to  ask  your  lordship  a few 
questions." 

“ Indeed  1 w said  Calliston*  abruptly.  “ Oh,  so  you 
didn  t find  out  everything  from  the  lady  you  saw  on  board 
the  yacht  ? " 

“ How  do  you  know  I was  down  at  Brighton  ? ” asked 
Dowker. 

“ Simply  enough,”  answered  Calliston.  “ I received  a 
telegram  from  my  sailing-master  informing  me  of  your 

visit.  You  saw  Miss — Miss " here  he  glanced  at  Totty 

as  if  dountful  to  wiaouac**  &s  marriage,  “ Miss  Sarschine  ? * 


THE  PICCADILLY  PUJSZLR 


M 

11  Yes,  I saw  Miss  Sarschiae,”  replied  Dowker,  with  m 

emphasis  on  the  last  word. 

“ And  she  doubtless  told  you  of  her  visit  to  Lady  Bab 
combe’s  house  ? ” 

•‘She  did."  “ 

“ And  of  Lady  Balscombe’s  visit  to  these  rooms  ? " 

“ Correot.” 

“Then  what  do  you  want  to  know  from  me?*  demanded 
Calliston. 

Mr.  Dowker  ran  his  hand  round  the  brim  of  his  hat 

“ I want  an  account  of  your  lordship’s  movements  on 
that  night,”  he  said  smoothly. 

Lord  Calliston  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a burst  of  laughter. 

“ Good  Heavens  ! ” he  cried.  “ Surely  you  don’t  think 
1 killed  Lady  Balscombe  ? ” 

Dowker  said  nothing,  but  looked  discreetly  on  the  ground, 
upon  which  Calliston  frowned. 

“ Don’t  carry  the  joke  too  far,”  he  said,  harshly.  “ I am 
a very  good-natured  man,  but  there  are  limits  to  one’s 
good-temper — in  some  cases  I would  decline  to  answer 
your  very  impertinent  questions,  but  as  I want  to  save  my 
cousin’s  life,  if  possible,  I will  tell  you  what  I know — be 
seated. 

The  detective  bowed  and  took  a seat,  while  Calliston 
turned  to  Mrs.  Povy. 

“ You  can  go  now,”  he  said  quietly,  “and  don’t  let  me 
be  disturbed  until  I ring  the  bell.” 

“Wait  a minute,”  observed  Dowker,  as  Mrs.  Povy 
passed  him.  “ You  told  me  it  was  Miss  Sarschine  visited 
Mr.  Desmond  on  that  night  ? ” 

“ And  so  it  was,”  retorted  Totty,  defiantly,  pausing  at 
the  door.  “ If  I was  massacred  this  minute  I’d  swear  it” 

“ How  are  you  so  certain  ? ” 

“ Because  I saw  her  face — as  if  I didn’t  know  it,  and 
another  thing,  she  wore  the  same  dress  and  jacket  as  she 
did  when  she  were  here  in  the  afternoon — get  along  with 
you,”  said  Totty,  viciously,  “ telling  me  I’m  telling  lies,  an’ 
am  old  enough  to  be  your  mother,  only  my  sons  ’ud  be 
men  and  not  skeletons,”  and  with  this  sarcastic  allusion  to 
Dowker’s  leanness,  the  indignant  Mrs.  Povy  departed. 

“ Ah  1 ” said  Dowker,  thoughtfully,  not  paying  any  at- 
tention to  her  last  remark,  “ it  was  the  resemblance  and  the 
change  of  clothes  made  her  make  the  mistake — humph—*” 


FBOMGAL’S  BETOBH. 


•“Now,  then,  Mr.  Dowker,”  said  Calliston,  tapping  the 
table  impatiently,  “where  do  you  want  me  to  begin 
from  ?” 

“ From  the  time  your  lordship  arrived  at  “ The  Fink 
rUn.”  Calliston  stared  at  him  in  astonishment 

“ How  the  deuce  did  you  know  I was  there  ? " he  asked. 
“Easily  enough,”  replied  the  detective,  coolly;  “ the 
fittle  urchin  you  gave  money  to  told  me.” 

* The  devil  I ” said  Calliston,  in  a vexed  tone.  “ One 
seems  to  be  surrounded  with  spies — perhaps  you  can  tell 
me  how  I spent  the  rest  of  the  night  ? " 

“No,  I leave  that  to  your  lordship.” 

“Then  it's  easily  done,”  retorted  the  young  lord,  coolly. 
* I left  these  rooms  intending  to  go  to  Shoreham  by  the 
to 1 minutes  past  nine  train  from  London  Bridge.” 

“ Was  Lady  Balscombe  to  meet  you  there  ? ” 

“No — she  intended  to  go  first  to  the  Countess  of 
Kerstoke’s  ball  in  order  to  avert  suspicion,  and  then  was 
to  come  down  to  Shoreham  by  the  first  train  in  the 
morning — about  five  forty-five.  At  all  events,  I left  here 
about  eight  o’clock  in  order  to  go  down,  when  I looked  in 
at  my  club  for  a few  minutes,  and  heard  of  a sparring  match 
coming  off  at  “The  Pink  ’Un,”  and  was  induced  by  some 
friends  to  go.  I thought  I’d  not  bother  about  going  down 
by  the  nine-ten  train,  as  I could  catch  the  early  train  in  the 
morning,  and  go  down  with  Lady  Balscombe,  so  I went  to 
•The  Pink  'Un,*  and  saw  the  match — then  I thought  I'd 
go  home  to  my  rooms.  Just  as  I got  to  them  a woman 
came  out  of  the  doorway,  and  rushed  away  like  a mad 
thing.  If  you  remember,  it  wras  a foggy  night,  but  I was 
close  enough  to  recognize  the  dress,  and  thought  it  was 
Lena  Sarschine.  Just  as  I was  puzzling  over  her  sudden 
appearance,  a man  passed  me  quickly,  and  wrent  after  the 
woman — they  both  disappeared  in  the  fog,  and  I thought  Fd 
better  follow  and  find  out  what  was  up.  I lost  myself  in  the 
fog,  and  after  wandering  about  for  about  a couple  of  hours 
I managed  to  get  a cab  and  go  to  my  club ; there  I raet 
some  fellows,  and  as  I had  to  catch  an  early  train,  did  no! 
think  it  worth  while  to  go  to  bed.  I fell  asleep,  however 
on  the  sofa,  and  the  end  of  it  was  I went  down  to 
Shoreham  by  a late  train,  and  came  on  board  the  yacht 
They  told  me  Lady  Balscombe  wra$  on  board,  so  I ordered 
the  yacht  to  start  At  once,  and  it  was  only  when  we  war® 


•A 


TOE  HCCADILLY  PUZZLE. 


right  out  that  I found  out  my  mistake — until  I came  back 
to  England,  I had  no  more  idea  than  you  that  Lady  Bala- 
combe  had  been  murdered.” 

Bowker  listened  to  all  this  with  the  deepest  interest)  and 
then  asked  Lord  Calliston  a question. 

44  Who  was  the  man  who  passed  you  in  pursuit  of  the 
woman  ? ” 

44  How  should  I know?  ” replied  Calliston,  fidgeting  in  his 
seat. 

44  You  did  not  know  him  ? ” 

96  How  could  I recognise  any  one  on  such  a foggy  night  ?* 

••Had  you  any  idea  who  it  was  ?”  persisted  Dowker. 

44  Well,  I had,”  said  Calliston  reluctantly.  44  It  is  only 
fancy  mind,  because  I did  not  see  the  man's  face,  but  I 
thought  his  figure  and  bearing  resembled  some  one  I 
know.” 

44  And  the  name  of  that  some  one?* 

14  Sir  Rupert  Balscombe.” 

Dowker  uttered  an  ejaculation  of  astonishment  and 
summed  up  the  whole  thing  in  his  Own  mind. 

44  Cock-and-bull  story,”  he  muttered  to  himself.  44  He  has 
learned  since  it  was  Lady  Balscombe  whom  be  saw  and 
wants  to  put  the  blame  on  to  the  husband — pish  1 ” 

44  Well,”  said  Calliston  anxiously. 

44  It's  a grave  accusation  to  make,”  said  Dowker. 

44  Fm  not  making  any  accusation,”  retorted  Calliston, 
violently.  44 1 only  think  it  was  Sir  Rupert  Fm  not 
accusing  him  of  anything.  Is  that  all  you  want  to  know  ? 
If  so,  you'll  oblige  me  by  leaving  my  rooms.” 

Both  men  arose  to  their  feet  and  looked  at  one  another, 
and  so  absorbed  were  they  that  they  did  not  hear  the  door 
softly  open  behind  them. 

44  Not  yet,  Lord  Calliston,”  said  Dowker  calmly.  14 1 
want  to  know  what  you  did  those  two  hours  you  were  in 

the  fog.” 

44  Do ! nothing,  except  walk  about  looking  for  the 
woman  I thought  Lena  Sarschine.” 

44  And  you  found  her  ?” 

44  No.” 

44  Bah  ! what  jury  would  believe  that  ?" 

44  Do  you  mean  to  accuse  me  of  this  murder  tm  asked 
Calliston  furiously,  clenching  his  fists. 

44 1 accuse  you  of  nothing,”  retorted  Dowker  coolly.  * I 


THE  PRODIGAL'S  RfiTTOE. 


m 


merely  put  a case  tc  you— here  is  a man,  yourself,  going 
to  run  off  with  another  woman,  when  his  mistress,  as  he 
thinks,  comes  to  stop  him — he  sees  her  leave  his  chambers 
in  a furious  rage,  follows  her — what  is  more  natural  than 
that  he  should  meet  her,  and  she  heaps  reproaches  on 
him- ” 

“Wait  a minute,”  interrupted  Cailiston  with  a sneer, 
“ your  picture  is  very  tragic  but  quite  wrong.  Suppose  I did 
meet  the  woman  who  left  my  chambers,  I would  find  not 
Lena  Sarschine  but  Lady  Balscombe,  the  very  woman  I 
wanted  to  meet.” 

Dowker  rubbed  his  head,  being  for  once  in  his  life 
nonplussed  by  a man  as  clever  as  himself. 

“ It  does  sound  wrong  I confess,”  he  said  ruefully,  “ still 
you  are  in  an  awkward  situation.  If  you  did  not  kill  Lady 
Balscombe,  what  is  the  name  of  the  person  who  did?  ” 

“ Lena  Sarschine  ! ” 

It  was  a third  voice  that  uttered  the  name,  and  both 
men  turned  round  to  see  Lena  Sarschine  looking  at  them 
with  blazing  eyes. 

“Yes  !”  she  said,  advancing  towards  Dowker.  “I  knew 
you  suspected  Cailiston  when  you  came  to  the  yacht 

Jesterday,  and  I came  up  to  prevent  him  meeting  you. 

am  too  late  for  that,  but  not  too  late  to  prevent  you 
arresting  an  innocent  man.  You  want  to  know  who  murdered 
my  sister — I did — I was  mad  with  rage  and  jealousy,  I 
followed  her  from  her  own  house  and  saw  her  leave  these 
rooms,  we  met  and  she  told  me  she  was  going  down  to 
Shoreham  and  defied  me,  so  I killed  her  with  this  dagger,” 
and  throwing  a small  silver  mounted  stiletto  at  the  detective's 
feet,  her  unnatural  strength  gave  way  and  she  sank  on  the 
floor  in  a dead  faint,  while  the  two  men  stood  looking 
blankly  at  one  another. 

“My  God  I”  said  Cailiston,  “this  is  terrible  I* 

“Yes,”  replied  Dowker,  *if  it  fa  true.* 
u Don't  you  believe  it  ? * 

•Notone  word  I w 


m THB  HGCA JDILLY  PUZfflJk 


CHAPTER  TVTUu 

WHAT  MYLES  DESMOND  THOUGHT. 

Imprisonment  is  not  calculated  to  raise  a man’s  spirits, 
consequently  poor  Myles,  having  now  been  shut  up  fos 
some  weeks,  was  in  rather  a dismal  frame  of  mind, 
Norwood  informed  him  from  time  to  time  of  the  discoveries 
that  were  being  made,  so,  in  spite  of  his  quixotic  ideas 
concerning  the  promise  he  had  made  to  Lady  Balscombe, 
there  seemed  every  chance  that  he  would  soon  be  released 
from  his  perilous  position. 

After  the  discovery  that  Lady  Balscombe  was  dead  and 
not  Lena  Sarschine,  Norwood,  accompanied  by  May 
Penfold,  went  to  tell  Myles  about  it  in  the  hope  that  this 
being  the  case  he  would  now  tell  all  about  his  interview 
with  the  deceased,  and  thus  possibly  throw  some  light  on 
the  mystery.  Myles  was  delighted  to  see  May  and  clasped 
her  fondly  to  his  breast,  while  Norwood,  finding  the 
meeting  of  two  lovers  somewhat  trying,  busied  himself  with 
his  notes  at  the  other  end  of  the  cell 

“ I knew  you  would  not  forsake  me,  May,”  said  Myles* 
tenderly,  “ you  at  least  do  not  believe  me  guilty/’ 

“ Of  course  not,”  replied  May,  “ nor  does  anyone  else — 
Mr.  Dowker,  my  guardian  and  Mr.  Ellersby  all  swear  you 
are  innocent.” 

“ Ellersby ! ” said  Myles  in  surprise,  H I thought  after 
meeting  me  on  that  night  he  would  think  I had  committed 
the  crime.” 

“ Well,  he  does  not  I ” 

" I did  not  think  Ellersby  would  prove  such  a friend," 
said  Desmond  heartily. 

“ I don't  know  if  you'll  consider  him  so  much  of  a friend 
when  I tell  you  he  wants  to  marry  me/ 

“ What  I many  you ! ” 

“ Yes  ! he  came  yesterday  morning  to  see  me  and  asked 
MM  if  I would  marry  him.” 


WHAT  j TITLES  DESMOHD  THOUGHT,  Wt 

**  And  you  ? what  did  you  answer  ? * 

* Can  you  ask  ? ” she  said,  looking  at  him  reproachfully. 
* I told  him  I was  engaged  to  you—he  said  he  had  heard 
•o  hut  was  not  certain  if  it  was  true,  and  then — — ” 

“ Go  on,”  said  Myles,  seeing  she  hesitated. 

" Then  he  said  you  were  in  a dangerous  position,  but 
that  if  I promised  to  marry  him  he  would  do  his  best  to 
prove  your  innocence.” 

“ How  can  he  do  that  ? ” asked  Myles  quietly. 

“I  don’t  know,”  answered  May,  “that  is  what  he  said, 
then  I refused  him  again  and  said  your  innocence  would 
tee  proved  without  any  assistance  from  him.  After  that  1 
left  the  library,  and  shortly  afterwards  he  went  away. 
Since  then  I have  not  seen  him  and  I don’t  want  to.” 

“ It’s  very  kind  of  Ellersby  wanting  to  help  me,”  said 
Myles,  kissing  May,  “ but  I don’t  think  it  was  honourable  of 
him  to  make  your  hand  the  price  of  his  help,  knowing  you 
were  engaged  to  me.” 

“He  was  not  certain  of  that  You  know  everyone 
thought  Lord  Caliiston  was  my  future  husband.” 

“ They  can  hardly  think  so  now,”  said  Myles  in  a rather 
husky  voice,  kissing  her  on  the  cheek. 

“ As  soon  as  you  are  ready  to  attend  to  business,  Mr. 
Desmond,”  said  Norwood,  coming  forward,  “ I have  some 
serious  things  to  say.” 

“ Go  on  1 ” replied  Desmond  listlessly. 

“You  said  that  on  the  return  of  Calliston’s  yacht  yon 
would  be  released  from  the  promise  you  made  to  the  lady 
whom  you  saw  on  that  night” 

“Yes,”  answered  Myles  uneasily,  “I  did,  but  I tfon’t 
think  the  yacht  will  return  for  a long  time.” 

“You  are  wrong — the  Seamcw  is  at  Brighton  now.” 

“And  Caliiston?”  gasped  Desmond,  a greyish  paJos: 
overspreading  his  face. 

“ Caliiston  is  in  London — and  Lena  Sarschine.” 

“Lena  Sarschine?”  mutters  Myles,  with  a quick  in- 
drawn breath. 

“Yes.  We  know  now  that  Lady  Balscombe  was  the 
woman  who  left  the  rooms  in  anger,  and  was  murdered  in 
Jermyn  Street.” 

“ True  ! True  1 ” murmured  Desmond  M It’s  quite  true  J” 

“You  knew  Lady  Balscombe  was  murdered,  and  not 
Lena  Sarschine  ? ” asked  May  with  a cry. 


M 


TEE  PICCADILLY  PUmJt, 


He  bowed  his  head. 

wYes.  I saw  Lady  Balscombe  on  that  night  She  was  dressed 
in  Lena  Sarschine's  clothes,  and  came  to  see  Calliston.  He 
was  not  there — I was.  She  told  me  of  the  visit  of  her  sister 
to  her  house,  and  how  she  had  come  to  learn  the  truth  from 
Calliston's  own  lips.  I told  her  it  was  true  that  Lena  Sars- 
chine — or  rather,  Helena  Dicksfall — was  Calliston^  mistress. 
She  was  mad  with  anger,  and  wanted  to  go  straight  back  to 
her  sister.  Knowing  if -she  did  the  two  women  would  have  a 
row,  and  things  might  become  serious,  I tried  to  quiet  her,  but 
was  unsuccessful.  In  spite  of  all  I could  do,  she  rushed 
away  outside,  and  though  I followed  her  in  a few  minutes, 
I was  unable  to  find  her,  as  she  had  disappeared  in  the 
» thick  fog.  I went  along  Piccadilly  as  quickly  as  I could, 
thinking  she  had  gone  home,  but  after  getting  to  Park  Lane 
and  not  finding  her,  I thought  I had  lost  her  on  the  way, 
as  she  could  not  have  walked  as  quickly  as  I did.  I did  not 
ask  for  her  at  Park  Lane,  as  that  would  have  let  the  servants 
know  she  was  out,  and  I wanted  to  save  her  good  name.  I 
went  back  again  along  Piccadilly  down  St.  James's  Street,  in 
a vain  hope  of  finding  her.  I was  unsuccessful,  as  you  may 
guess,  so  was  coming  up  St.  James's  Street  on  my  way  bade 
to  Park  Lane,  when  I met  Ellersby,  as  you  know.  After 
that  I gave  up  the  chase  in  despair  and  went  home.  Next 
morning  I heard  of  the  murder  in  Jermyn  Street,  and  saw 
by  the  description  of  the  dress  it  was  Lady  Balscombe,  but 
as  the  idea  got  about  it  was  Lena  Sarschine,  I did  not  seek  to 
contradict  it” 

“ Why  ? " asked  Norwood. 

“ For  very  strong  reasons,"  replied  Desmond  coldly. 

“Were  your  very  strong  reasons  connected  with  the 
murder  ? " 

“ They  were." 

“ Cannot  you  tell  them  to  me  now  ? " 

“ If  you  give  me  a few  minutes  to  think  I will  let  you 
know." 

“Very  good,”  said  Norwood  cheerfully. 

“Why  did  you  not  tell  us  all  this  before?*  asked 
May. 

“Because  Lady  Balscombe  made  me  promise  I would  not 
tell  of  her  visit,"  said  Myles.  “ When  she  found  out  Cat 
liston  had  been  playing  her  false  she  left  in  a rage,  saying 
she  would  go  back  to  her  house,  and  not  jeopardise  hef 


WHAT  MYLES  DESMOND  THOUGHT. 


m 


position  in  society  for  his  sake.  If  I had  told  you  of  her 
visit  I would  have  had  to  tell  you  all  the  rest.” 

“Why  place  your  neck  in  a noose  for  the  sake  of  any 
woman  ?”  said  Norwood. 

“ I would  not  have  done  so,”  replied  Myles.  “ If  it  came 
to  the  worst  I would  have  told  all,  but  I wanted  to  remain 
true  to  my  promise  as  long  as  I could.” 

“ Whom  did  you  think  Calliston  had  gone  off  with  ? ” 

“ At  first  I thought  no  one,”  replied  Myles  slowly,  “ but 
when  you  came  and  questioned  me  about  Lena  Sarschine,  I 
remembered  the  change  of  clothes,  and,  of  course,  knowing 
they  were  twins — for  Lady  Balscombe  told  me  all  on  that 
night — I guessed  that  Lena  Sarschine  had  taken  her  sister’s 
place.” 

“ So  far  so  good,”  said  Norwood.  “ But  now  for  your 
strong  reasons  not  to  tell  the  real  name  of  the  dead 
woman  ? ” 

Myles  grew  pale  again,  and  bit  his  nether  lip  fiercely. 
Then  he  turned  towards  May  and  took  both  her  hands. 

“ Can  you  bear  a shock  ? ” he  asked,  looking  searchingly 

at  her. 

“Yes,”  she  replied  faintly. 

“Good  heavens  1”  thought  Norwood  “Surely  he  isn’t 
going  to  confess  he  murdered  the  woman  himself  ? ” 

Myles  paused  a moment,  and  was  then  about  to  speak, 
when  the  door  of  the  cell  was  opened  and  Dowker  entered 
in  a state  of  suppressed  excitement. 

“Good  morning,  Miss  Penfold  and  gentlemen”  he 
said  rapidly.  “ I have  some  news  — good  news  — for 
you ! ” 

“About  what?”  asked  Norwood  curiously. 

“Thisjermyn  Street  case,”  replied  Dowker.  “I  have 
been  to  see  Lord  Calliston,  and  found  out  his  movements 
on  that  night.” 

“Do  they  incriminate  him?”  asked  Norwood 

“ If  they  did  it  would  not  much  matter,”  replied  the 
detective,  “ for  I have  discovered  the  real  criminal.” 

“ What  ? ” cried  Norwood  and  Miss  Penfold,  while  Myles 
said  nothing,  but  fixed  his  eyes  eagerly  on  Dowker’s  face. 

“Yes — she  has  confessed.” 

“ She  ! ” cried  May.  “ Is  it  a woman  ? w 

“ It  is — Lena  Sarschine  l ” 

“Lena  Sarschine  !”  echoed  the  three  in  astonishment 

v* 


tttE  HCOABtLLt  PTJ2ZLK. 


m 

“Hie  same.  She  has  confessed  that  she  followed 
her  sister  on  that  night  and  killed  her  through  jealousy  ” 

“ What  weapon  did  she  use?”  asked  Desmond,  db- 
believingly. 

“ This,”  replied  Dowker,  and  produced  the  dagger  Lena 
had  thrown  at  his  feet 

44  Do  you  believe  this  story  ? ” asked  Desmond,  looking 
at  Dowker. 

44  At  first  I did  not  believe  one  word,”  answered  the 
detective  slowly,  44  but  I am  now  doubtful,  as  I don't  see 
what  she  would  gain  by  confessing  herself  guilty  of  a crime 
she  had  not  committed” 

44 1 can  tell  you  what  she  would  gain,”  said  Desmond 
vehemently.  44  Yes — she  loves  Calliston  devotedly,  and 
thought  you  were  trying  to  bring  home  the  crime  to  him 
Did  she  overhear  your  conversation  ? ” 

44  Some  of  it,”  admitted  Dowker  reluctantly. 

44  Then  that  explains  all,”  said  Myles  triumphantly.  44  She 
thought  Calliston  was  in  danger  of  being  arrested  for  the 
murder,  and  swore  she  did  it  order  to  save  him.  Remember 
she  has  an  excitable  nature,  and  her  nerves  are  overstrung 
with  the  horror  of  her  sister's  death.  Ten  to  one  she  did 
not  know  what  she  way  saying.” 

44 But  this  dagger?”  began  Norwood. 

44  Pish ! ” retorted  Myles.  44 1 don't  believe  that  toy  had 
anything  to  do  with  it.  Find  out  if  it*s  poisoned,  for  I'll 
stake  my  existence  it  is  not  No ; Lena  Sarschine  did  not 
commit  the  crime ! ” 

44  You  seem  to  be  very  certain,”  said  Dowker.  44  Perhaps 
you  can  tell  me  who  did  ? ” 

44 1 can't  tell  you  for  certain,”  retorted  Desmond,  “but 
I have  my  suspicions.  You  wanted  to  know  my  reasons 
for  not  divulging  the  identity  of  the  deceased,”  he  went  on, 
turning  to  Norwood,  44 1 can  now  give  them,  as  this  self- 
accusation of  Lena  Sarschine's  is  too  absurd  to  be  allowed 
to  stand.  Z told  you  I did  not  see  Lady  Balscombe  again 
on  that  night  I told  a lie — I did.  When  I left  the  house 
to  follow  her  and  see  that  she  got  home  safely,  I went  along 
Piccadilly,  as  I told  you.  Under  a gas  lamp  I saw  Lady 
Balscombe  standing  talking  to  a man.  They  were  quarrel- 
ling, and  the  man's  voice  was  raised  in  anger.  Suddenly  I 
saw  the  man  put  his  hand  to  her  throat  and  wrench  some- 
thing sway.  Lady  Balscombe  gave  a cry  and  fled  acros*  the 


WHAT  DOWKER  BISOGYEBm  • ML 

ftareet  la  the  direction  of  St  James's  Street,  followed  by  t be 
mm  They  were  swallowed  up  in  the  fog,  and  I saw  no 
more  of  them*  It  was  the  direction  they  took  that  led  me 
into  St  James’s  Street  on  that  night  If  you  remember, 
there  was  a mark  on  Lady  Balscombe’s  neck,  as  if  some- 
thing had  been  wrenched  off,  so  you  can  now  understand 
the  reason,  I believe  the  man  inflicted  the  fatal  wound  at 
the  same  time.  She  fled  from  him,  went  blindly  down 
St  James’s  Street,  into  Jermyn  Street,  and  sank  in  a dying 
condition  on  the  steps  where  she  was  found. " 

44  Did  you  recognise  the  man  ? ” asked  Dowker,  who  had 
been  listening  intently  to  this  story, 

*1  did.* 

44  And  who  was  it  ? w cried  the  tria 
* Sir  Rupert  Balscombe,”  said  Myles, 

May  fell  into  Norwood’s  arms  with  a stifled  cry,  b M 
Dowker  began  to  speak  rapidly  : 

44  Why,  Lord  Calliston  also  said  he  saw  him  going  after 
Lady  Balscombe.  By  Jove  I so  he  is  the  criminal  after  alL 
What  a fool  I’ve  been— I’m  off  I * 

44  Where  to  ?”  asked  Norwood 

u I want  to  find  out  where  the  locket  and  chain  is  that 
Sir  Rupert  wrenched  off  his  wife’s  neck.* 


CHAPTER  XIX 

WHAT  DOWKER  DISCOVERED. 

After  bearing  the  revelations  made  by  'Lewd  Callistoa 
and  Myles  Desmond,  concerning  the  movements  of  Sir 
Rupert  Balscombe  on  the  night  of  the  murder,  Dowker 
had  no  doubt  in  his  own  mind  that  the  baronet  was  guilty 
of  the  crime.  Rumour  speaking  truly  for  once  said  they 
lived  unhappily  together  owing  to  Lady  Balscombe’s 
numerous  infidelities,  and  it  was  only  the  honour  of  his 
name  that  prevented  Sir  Rupert  applying  for  a divorce. 
Now,  however,  he  had  done  so,  as  his  wife’s  apparent  flight 
with  Lord  Calliston  was  of  too  glaring  a character  to  be 
overlooked  even  by  the  most  complacent  husband. 

Dowker,  however,  did  not  believe  in  the  genuineness  of 
the  application,  merely  looking  upon  it  as  a clever  piece  of 
acting  tsa  the  part  etf  a wily  scoundrel  cloak  hi*  crime. 


m 


THE  PICCADILLY  PUZZLE. 


In  the  detective’s  opinion  Sir  Rupert  had  simulated  ragt 
on  hearing  of  his  wife’s  apparent  iniquity — had  applied  for 
a divorce  knowing  she  was  dead — and  had  gone  down  to 
the  yacht  with  a full  knowledge  that  he  would  not  see  Lady 
Balscombe.  In  fact,  all  through  he  had  acted  a very 
clever  part,  in  order  to  ward  off  suspicion  that  he  was 
guilty  of  the  crime  of  murder. 

What  Dowker  now  wanted  to  find  was  the  locket  which 
Sir  Rupert  had  wrenched  off  his  wife’s  neck,  and  also  the 
?/eapon  used  in  the  committal  of  the  crime.  It  had  been 
clearly  shown  that  the  Malay  kriss  taken  from  Cleopatra 
Villa  could  not  have  been  used  by  anyone,  so  the  baronet 
must  have  had  some  dagger  of  his  own,  which  was  now 
doubtless  in  his  possession.  If  these  two  things  could  be 
found,  their  discovery  coupled  with  the  evidence  of  Cal- 
liston  and  Desmond  would  be  quite  sufficient  to  prove 
Sir  Rupert  guilty,  unless,  indeed,  he  could  prove  himself 
innocent,  of  which  there  did  not  seem  to  be  much  chance. 

Dowker  did  not  go  at  once  to  Park  Lane  as  he  was 
anxious  to  know  how  Lena  Sarschine,  or  rather  Lady 
Calliston,  was  after  her  hysterical  confession  of  guilt,  so  he 
drove  down  to  Cleopatra  Villa,  and  on  being  shown  in  to 
the  drawing-room  was  confronted  by  Lord  Calliston.  That 
young  nobleman  looked  haggard  and  worn  out,  so  that  in 
spite  of  his  conduct,  which  had  led  to  the  murder  of  one 
woman  and  the  self-accusation  of  another,  the  detective 
felt  sorry  for  him. 

‘‘What  do  you  want  now?”  he  asked  irritably.  “Have 
you  come  to  arrest  my  wife  ? ” 

“Your  wife,”  said  Dowker,  pretending  to  have  heard 
this  for  the  first  time. 

“ Yes,”  replied  Calliston,  boldly;  “we  were  married  ia 
France  and  she  is  now  my  wife.  I don’t  believe  her  guilty 
of  this  crime — do  you  ? ” 

“ I told  you  this  morning  I did  not,”  said  the  detective^ 
quietly.  “ It  was  only  a statement  made  by  her  to  save  you, 
because  she  thought  you  were  guilty.” 

“ What  do  you  say  ? ” asked  Calliston  abruptly. 

“ If  you  had  asked  me  this  morning,  I should  have  said 
the  circumstances  were  suspicious,”  said  Dowker  smoothly, 
“but  now  I can  say  heartily  that  you  are  innocent” 

“ How  do  you  know  I am  ? ” demanded  Caliistoa 
ironically. 


WHAT  DOWKEE  DISCOVERED. 


m 


m Because  I have  found  out  the  real  criminal,  at  least,  one 
J believe  to  be  the  real  criminal” 

“ Sir  Rupert  Balscombe  ? ” 

“Yes,  Sir  Rupert  Balscombe.” 

“I  thought  so,”  said  Calliston  bitterly.  MI  know  he 
hated  his  wife.” 

“ And  had  he  not  reason  ? ” asked  Dowker,  significantly. 

Calliston  flushed  and  turned  his  face  away. 

“ I'm  not  a saint,”  he  said  in  a low  voice,  “and  though 
my  conduct  may  appear  to  you  to  have  been  wrong  I could 
hardly  help  myself,  it  would  have  taken  a stronger  man 
than  myself  to  withstand  the  temptation.” 

“ And  now  ? ” 

“Now,”  replied  Calliston,  turning  towards  the  detective, 
“ I have  married  the  only  woman  I ever  really  cared  about, 
and  we  are  going  a tour  round  the  world  as  soon  as  she  is 
well — that  is,  if  she  ever  does  get  well” 

“ Is  she  then  so  ill  ? ” 

“ Brain  fever,”  replied  Calliston  curtly. 

“ I’m  very  sorry  to  hear  it,”  said  Dowker  quietly,  “ for 
she  is  a noble  woman.” 

Calliston  made  no  reply,  but  flung  himself  down  on  a 
couch  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  so,  without  saying 
another  word,  Dowker  left  the  room  and  made  his  final 
exit  from  Cleopatra  Villa. 

It  was  now  about  four  o’clock  in  the  afternoon,  so  Dowker 
drove  to  the  Park  Lane  mansion  and  asked  for  Sir  Rupert 
Balscombe.  The  footman  told  him  the  bajronet  was  out, 
but  added,  on  hearing  his  name,  that  Miss  Penfold  had 
given  orders  if  he  called  that  he  was  to  b#  shown  into 
the  library,  as  she  wished  to  see  him.  Dowker  was  pleased 
at  this  as  he  wanted  to  ask  May  some  questions,  and  fol- 
lowed the  servant  in  a very  pieased  frame  of  mind 

May  Penfold  was  seated  by  a small  table  talking  eagerly 
to  Mr.  Norwood,  who  sat  near  her  with  a pocket-book  open 
on  his  knee.  When  Dowker  entered  May  arose  and  went 
forward  in  a curiously  eager  manner.  Her  face  was  very 
pale,  and  there  were  dark  circles  under  her  eyes,  but  he? 
features  wore  a very  hopeful  expression,  for  she  was  now 
certain  of  saving  her  lover,  though  on  the  other  hand,  she 
might  lose  her  guardian. 

“ I’m  so  glad  you’ve  come,  Mr.  Dowker,”  she  said 

quickly.  “Mr  Norwood  and  mvself  have  been  talk 


m xm  nooAton&Y  fuzzml 

mg  over  the  position  of  the  case  md  we  want  yom  tmM- 
rsp  ce." 

44 1 will  be  delighted  to  give  it,”  answered  Dowker 
gravely,  taking  a seat  44 1 am  anxious  to  make  Mr. 
Desmond  all  the  reparation  in  my  power,  as  I was  the 
unconscious  cause  of  all  his  trouble.” 

44  You  only  acted  according  to  your  duty,”  said  Norwood 
in  a business-like  tone,  44  the  evidence  against  my  client 
was  very  strong,  but  the  evidence  against  Sir  Rupert ” 

44  Is  stronger  still,”  finished  the  detective.  44  Exactly ; but 
we  have  to  find  out  that  evidence.  Lord  Calliston  and  Mr. 
Desmotid  can  swear  they  saw  him  in  Piccadilly  following 
his  wife,  and  the  latter  saw  him  wrench  the  locket  off  his 
wife's  neck ; now  I want  to  find  that  locket,  and  also — if 
possible — the  dagger  with  which  the  crime  was  committed.” 

Norwood  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

44  You  may  be  certain  he  would  not  keep  dangerous 
evidence  like  that  about” 

44  Pardon  me ; I think  he  would,  because,  taking  the  case 
as  a whole  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  bring  his  guilt 
home  to  him,  but  for  the  circumstance  of  his  being  recog- 
nised by  Lord  Calliston  and  Mr.  Desmond ; even  if  he  did 
not  keep  the  dagger  he  would  certainly  retain  the  locket” 

44  Why  ? ” asked  May. 

44  Because  he  would  never  dream  that  there  would  be 
any  question  of  the  locket  being  brought  in  evidence— had 
it  not  been  for  the  mark  on  the  neck  of  the  wrenching  off, 
no  one  would  have  ever  known  that  Lady  Balscombe  wore 
a locket” 

44  Oh  I but  I knew,”  said  May  eagerly;  44 she  had  a large 
gold  locket  with  a thin  gold  chain — she  always  wore  it” 

44  Why  did  she  attach  such  value  to  it  ?”  asked  Norwood 

44 1 don't  know ; but  she  wore  it  mom,  noon  and  night” 

44  Can  you  describe  it  ? ” demanded  Dowker,  knitting  his 
brows. 

May  Penfold  thought  a moment 

44  It  was  an  old-fashioned  piece  of  jewellery,”  she  said  at 
length ; 44 1 never  saw  it  very  closely,  as  Lady  Balscombe 
kept  it  to  herself,  but  it  haa  two  curls  of  hair — light  az’id 
dark — twined  together  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other  £ think 
there  was  a portrait” 

44  Of  whom?” 

* l don't  know— I never  saw  it* 


W&AT  DOWKER  DlSCOTKUm 


m 


**  Bright  it  not  havo  been  Sir  Rupert 
May  Penfold  laughed. 

“I  don’t  think  Sir  Rupert  and  Lady  Balscorabe  were  so 
fondly  attached  as  all  that— it’s  more  probable  it  was  Lord 
C&lliston.” 

“ Have  you  any  idea  where  Sir  Rupert  could  have  put 
k ? ” asked  Dowker,  glancing  round  the  room. 

w Not  the  least  in  the  world,”  replied  May.  “He  might 
have  it  in  his  bed-room  or  dressing-room — or  it  might  be 
here.” 

u Here  1 ” echoed  both  the  men,  rising. 
u Well,  Sir  Rupert  was  always  in  this  room,”  said  May, 
* He  mostly  sat  at  this  desk,  so  perhaps  he  placed  it  in 
one  of  the  drawers  thinking  no  one  would  ransack  his 
private  papers.” 

The  desk  she  alluded  to  was  a massive  piece  of  furniture, 
beautifully  carved  There  were  innumerable  drawers  down 
each  side — a morocco  covered  writing-board,  and  at  the  back 
of  this,  more  drawers — while  the  centre  was  a fantastic  piece 
of  carving,  representing  the  head  of  Shakespeare  with 
characters  from  his  dramas  all  round  him.  Owing  to  the 
elaborate  carving  the  wood  was  wonderfully  massive  and 
thick,  so  that  the  whole  desk  looked  a remarkably  handsome 
piece  of  furniture. 

“ It  belonged  to  Lady  Balscombe’s  father,  Captain  Dicks- 
fall,”  said  May  as  they  looked  at  it,  “and  he  gave  it  to  Sir 
Rupert  as  a wedding  present.” 

Dowker  bent  down  and  pulled  at  the  drawers,  but  they 
were  all  locked,  whereupon  he  straightened  himself  and 
looked  somewhat  disconsolate. 

“Not  much  chance  of  getting  m there,”  he  said  in  m 
annoyed  tone,  “and  we  cannot  break  open  the  drawers  as 
we  have  no  authority  to  do  so.” 

May  Penfold  laughed  a little  maliciously. 
iA  In  spite  of  your  being  a detective,  “ she  said  lightly,  **  l 
am  able  to  help  you — the  mouse  will  gnaw  the  net  and 
release  the  lion — if  Sir  Rupert  has  hidden  the  locket  any* 
where,  it  will  be  in  the  secret  hiding-place  of  this  desk.” 
w Is  there  one? ” asked  Norwood,  looking  at  it. 
u Yes  I I was  examining  the  desk  one  day,  and  Lady 
Ralscombe  toM  me  there  was  a secret  drawer  which  nobody 
knew  but  herself — slot  even  Sir  Rupert,  as  her  father  had 
s»o4  told  tujpri  about  it  on  presenting  the  desk,  I mked  her 


m rm  hccaduxy  puzzlr. 

where  it  was,  but  she  refused  to  tell  me,  and  said  I could 
find  out” 

“ Did  you  try  ? ” asked  Dowker. 

“ Of  course  I did — 1 am  a woman,  and  therefore  curious,” 
replied  May  with  a smile,  “ I discovered  it  one  day  by  acci- 
dent, so  I will  now  show  it  to  you.” 

“Wait  a moment,”  said  Norwood  “If  Sir  Rupert  did 
not  know  of  the  existence  of  this  secret  place,  he  can  hardly 
have  hidden  anything  in  it” 

May  Penfold's  face  fell 

“ No — that's  true,”  she  replied  dismally,  “however,  I will 
show  it  to  you,  and  then  we  will  find  some  means  to  open 
these  other  drawers.” 

“ The  end  of  this  will  be  a search-warrant,”  said  DowkeT 
decisively. 

May  did  not  reply  ; but  leaning,  on  the  desk,  pressed  her 
fingers  on  the  ears  of  the  Shakespeare  head — a sharp  click 
was  heard — and  she  lifted  out  the  whole  face  of  the  carving, 
disclosing  a wide  place,  but  with  no  depth,  so  that  any 
articles  placed  therein  would  have  to  stand  on  end..  As  she 
removed  the  carving  Dowker  gave  an  exclamation  and  bent 
forward,  for  there  before  them  was  an  old-fashioned  locket, 
a slender  gold  chain,  and  an  arrow-head.  The  three  looked 
at  one  another  in  silence,  which  was  broken  by  Dowker. 

“This,”  he  said,  taking  up  the  locket,  “is  without  doubt 
what  you  allude  to,  Miss  Penfold — see,  there  is  a fair  cud 
and  a dark  curl  of  hair  on  this  side,  and  on  the  other  the 
face  of  a man — or  rather  a boy.” 

And  indeed  the  face  looked  like  that  of  a boy — smooth 
face — black  hair — clearly-cut  features  and  dark  eyes. 

“ Who  can  it  be  ? ” said  May,  gazing  at  it.  “ I've  seen  that 
face  before.” 

“ So  have  I,”  answered  Dowker  with  decision,  “ there  is 
something  in  it  familiar ; but  is  this  the  locket  you  have 
seen  Lady  Ba!*scombe  wear  ? ” 

“ Yes — and  this  is  the  chain.” 

“ So  far,  so  good,”  said  Norwood,  taking  up  the  arrow- 
head, “ but  what  is  this  ? ” 

Dowker  looked  at  it  for  a moment,  and  then  smiled. 

“ I would  advise  you  to  take  care  of  that,”  he  said  quietly, 
“it's  poisoned.” 

“Poisoned  1 ” echoed  Norwood,  and  quickly  replaced  it 
in  the  drawer,  “ how  do  you  know  ? ” 


WHAT  DOWKER  DISCOVERED,  1 Of 

* Because  I am  certain  that  it  is  the  weapon  with  which 
the  crime  was  committed— we  were  misled  by  the  Malay 
kms,  but  this  is  a certainty*” 

“Then  you  think  Sir  Rupert  guilty?”  asked  May  in 
dismay. 

“ Sir  Rupert  is  jealous  of  his  wife — he  follows  her  on  that 
night,  knowing  she  is  going  to  elope — meets  her  in  Picca- 
dilly, and  is  seen  following  her  by  one  witness — is  overheard 
having  angry  words  with  her  by  a second,  who  also  sees  him 
wrench  a locket  off  her  neck — his  wife  is  found  dead — and 
in  a secret  drawer,  known  only  to  Sir  Rupert,  yourself,  and 
the  dead  woman,  is  found  the  locket  and  the  weapon  with 
which  the  crime  was  committed.  I think  the  case  is  clear 
enough,” 

“What  will  you  do  now?”  asked  Norwood. 

“ Put  them  back  for  the  present,”  said  Dowker,  replacing 
the  locket  and  chain,  “andwrait  here  for  Sir  Rupert.  I 
will  question  him.  He  will  deny  it  Then  I will  confound 
him  by  showing  him  the  evidence  of  his  guilt.  Will  you 
kindly  replace  the  carving,  Miss  Penfold.” 

May  did  as  she  was  told  in  silence,  for  though  this  dis- 
covery would  save  her  lover,  yet  she  was  deeply  grieved  at 
the  thought  of  what  it  meant  to  her  guardian* 

“ If  his  wife  had  been  a good  woman  this  would  not 
have  happened,”  she  said  bitterly. 

“Were  all  people  good  I'd  have  no  occupation,”  said 
Dowker  drily. 

At  this  moment  they  heard  footsteps  outside  and  a man 
talking,  whose  voice  May  immediately  recognised 

“ IPs  Mr.  Ellersby,”  she  said  quickly.  “ He  ha9  come  t© 
see  Sir  Rupert  about  my  marriage.  I cannot  meet  him.” 

“Neither  can  I,”  said  Dowker,  “as  I want  to  see  Sir 
Rupert  alone.  Is  there  no  place  where  we  can  wait  ? ” 

“Yea,  here,”  said  May,  and  walked  to  the  end  of  the 
room,  where  there  was  a door  leading  to  & smaller  apart- 
ment, before  which  hung  a curtain.  “ Let  us  all  go  in  here 
till  he  is  gone.” 

Dowker  and  Norwood  took  up  their  hats  and  went  aftei 
her  into  the  room,  leaving  the  library  quiet  and  deserted 


tm  FICOABILLY  FUmi 


CHAPTER  XX 

THIS  END  OF  IT  ALL* 

Ssmrncbr  Exxkrsetv,  well  dressed,  nonchalant  and  languid, 
entered  the  room  with  a smile  on  his  face,  which  faded 
quickly  when  he  found  there  was  no  one  present  to  receive 
him. 

“I  thought  you  said  Miss  Penfold  was  here,”  fee 
observed  sharply,  turning  to  the  footman  who  was  showing 
him  in. 

“ So  she  was,  sir,”  stammered  the  servant  in  some  con- 
fusion, “ and  two  gentlemen.” 

“Gentlemen  I”  muttered  Ellersby  to  himself,  taking  a 
chair,  “some  of  those  empty-headed  men  about  town,  I 
suppose.” 

“I  think  Miss  Penfold  must  have  gone  up  to  the 
drawing-room,  sir,”  said  the  servant,  turning  towards  the 
door.  “ Will  I take  your  name  up,  sir  ? ” 

“ No,”  replied  Ellersby,  with  a yawn.  * I want  to  see  St? 
Rupert  just  now,  so  I'll  wait  here  till  he  comes  in,  and  go 
upstairs  afterwards.” 

“ Very  good,  sir,”  said  the  footman,  and  was  just  re- 
tiring when  Sir  Rupert,  looking  jaded  and  worried, 
entered  the  room,  upon  which  Ellersby  rose  to  his  feet,  and 
ghe  footman  going  out,  dosed  the  door  behind  him. 

“ Ah,  Sir  Rupert,”  he  said  carelessly,  “ I am  so  glad  to 
see  you,  as  I thought  I'd  have  to  wait  for  some  time.  I 
must  apologise  for  coming  into  this  room,  but  your  servant 
said  Miss  Penfold  was  here.” 

“ Have  you  seen  her  ? ” said  Sir  Rupert,  moodily,  taking 
bis  seat  in  front  of  the  desk  and  swinging  round  the  seat 
bo  as  to  face  his  visitor. 

“ No,  he  made  a mistake.  She  is  up  in  the  drawing-room! 
•0  I am  going  to  see  her  later  on.” 

“ Meanwhile  ? ” demanded  the  baronet 

11 1 am  going  to  see  you.”  finished  Ellersby,  smoothly, 
resuming  his  seat 


JKH2)  OP  BP  AS3U 


to* 


Bafscomhe  raised  his  eyebrows 

* What  about?” 

M A very  important  subject—mmkge.1® 

“ Whose  marriage  ? " 

**  My  own/* 

44  What  have  I to  do  with  your  marriage  ? 99 

“ A great  deal,”  replied  Eilersby  calmly,  44  because  I rant 
& marry  Miss  Penfold” 

44  Impossible,”  said  Balscombe  pointedly,  44  quite  ira* 
possible.” 

44  How  so  ? ” asked  the  other  coolly.  44  I have  a good 
position,  plenty  of  money,  and  my  character  is  good.” 

44  Your  moral  character  ? ” sneering. 

MOh,  that,”  with  a laugh,  “is  no  better  nor  worse  than 
other  young  men,  so  I would  like  your  answer.  Will  you 
favour  my  suit  ? * 

u No.” 

14  Why  not? * 

M Because,  in  the  first  place,  my  ward  is  going  to  marry 
Myles  Desmond.” 

“ Marry  Myles  Desmond  l * replied  Eilersby,  with  a 
sneer,  44  A man  lying  in  prison  under  a charge  of 
miarder." 

“ He  will  be  proved  innocent  of  that  charge.” 

u By  whom  ? * 

* That's  my  business,”  retorted  Balscombe,  with  a scowL 

Eilersby  laughed  in  a most  irritating  manner. 

w So  that  is  your  first  objection,”  he  said  lightly.  44  Pray 
what  is  your  second  ? ” 

For  answer  Balscombe  turned  to  his  desk,  and  unlocking 
a drawer,  took  therefrom  a bundle  of  old  letters  tied  with 
a blue  ribbon. 

44  This  is  my  second  objection,”  he  said,  holding  them  up. 
u Perhaps  you  recognise  these  letters  ? ” 

Spencer  Eilersby  turned  pale  and  half  rose  from  his 
seat. 

* Where  did  you  find  them?'" 

u In  the  secret  drawer  of  this  desk,”  replied  the  baronet 
* My  wife,  thinking  I did  not  know  the  hiding-place,  put 
them  there  for  safety ; but  her  father  told  me  about  the 
secret  drawer  when  he  gave  me  the  desk,  and  one  day  I 
opened  it  idly,  not  expecting  to  find  anything,  when  I found 
thefts.* 


110 


tm  masj&ms:  tnm&, 


ESersby  laughed  discordantly. 

“ And  what  are  those  wonderful  letters?  " 

“You  need  not  pretend  ignorance,”  said  the  baronet 
coldly.  “ These  are  letters  written  by  you  to  my  wife  at 
Folkestone  under  her  maiden  name  of  Amelia  DicksfaB, 
and  which  prove  that  you  were  her  lover  long  before  she 
met  me.” 

“ I acknowledge  it,”  said  Ellersby  insolently.  “ And  what 

have  you  to  say  about  it  ? ” 

“ Simply  this,”  replied  Balscombe,  rising,  “ that  you  may 
thank  God  that  I do  not  kill  you  where  you  sit  But  my 
wife  proved  to  be  such  a worthless  woman  she  is  not  fit  to 
be  defended,  and  knowing  this,  you  have  the  daring  to  ask 
me  for  my  ward’s  hand.  Do  you  think  I would  give  her  to 
you,  a scoundrel,  a profligate  ? — never  ! ” 

“ I think  you  will,”  said  Ellersby  coldly,  “ for  the  very 
good  and  sufficient  reason  that  I can  force  you  to.” 

« How  so  ? ” 

“You  know  well  enough,”  sneered  the  other.  “If  the 
police  ask  me  who  committed  the  Jermyn  Street  murder,  I 
can  tell  them  who  did  it — Rupert  Balscombe.” 

“You  scoundrel! — do  you  mean  to  say  I killed  my 
wife  ? ” 

“ I can  swear  it — and  I will,  too,  if  you  don’t  give  me 

your  ward ! ” 

“ It’s  a cursed  lie  1 ” cried  the  baronet,  white  with  fury  j 
“ where  are  your  proofs  ? ” 

“ Open  that  hiding  place,  and  you’ll  find  them.” 

Sir  Rupert  gave  a stifled  cry,  and  staggered  back  against 
the  desk,  while  Ellersby  looked  at  him  with  a smile  of 
triumph.  The  three  listeners  in  the  other  room  were  stand- 
ing close  to  the  door,  with  greedy  ears  drinking  in  every 
word  of  this  strange  conversation. 

The  baronet  with  an  affort  recovered  himself  and,  turn- 
hs g to  the  desk,  touched  the  secret  spring  and  took  down 
She  carving.  There  lay  the  locket,  the  chain,  and  the  fatal 
arrow. 

“ There  is  the  locket  you  wrenched  off  your  wife’s  neck 
on  that  night,”  said  Ellersby,  pitilessly,  “ and  there  is  the 
poisoned  arrow-head  with  which  you  committed  the 

crime ! ” 

Balscombe  took  out  the  objects  and  looked  at  them 

vacantly. 


THE  EOT)  OF  IT  AX& 


II! 


“ What  devilry  is  this  ? ” he  said,  fiercely.  **  This  fe  the 
locket  I know — the  locket  that  contains  your  hair  and  your 
picture,  curse  you  I But  the  arrow-head — I know  nothing 

of  that* 

“Bah! — who  would  believe  you?*  replied  the  other, 
mockingly ; “ it  is  in  your  secret  drawer  ! ” 

“How  did  you  know  this  hiding-place ? * demanded 

Balscombe. 

“ I never  said  I knew  it.w 

“ No— but  you  said  your  evidence  was  in  there,  so  you 
must  have  seen  these  things  before.  I believe  you  put  the 
arrow-head  there  yourself 

“ Did  I,  indeed  ? " said  Ellersby  with  a sneer.  “ Where 
would  I get  the  arrow-head  ? — don't  blame  me  for  a crime 
you  committed  yourself." 

“ I did  not  commit  it  i ” shouted  Balscombe  in  a frenzy. 
“ I acknowledge  I knew  of  my  wife's  intended  elopement, 
and  came  up  from  Berkshire  to  prevent  it  I was  too  late, 
and  went  to  Collision's  rooms  to  see  him.  I missed  the 
door  in  the  fog,  and  when  I found  it,  the  first  thing  I saw 
was  my  guilty  wife  leaving  the  house.  I followed  her,  and 
caught  up  to  her — she  shrieked,  and  I gave  way  to  my  just 
anger.  I knew  she  had  tthis  locket,  and  thought  it  com 
tained  Calliston's  portrait,  not  yours,  30  wrenched  it  off  her 
neck  to  make  sure.  She  ran  away  across  the  street  and  1 
lost  her  in  the  fog.  I swear  I saw  no  more  of  her  on  that 
night  till  I read  of  her  death/1 

“You  knew  it  was  your  wife  that  was  dead  ? n 

* I was  not  certain.  I heard  the  Stamcw  had  sailed  with 
Lady  Balscombe  on  board,  and  thought  that  the  dead 
woman  was  some  wretched  street-walker  with  whom  my 
wife  had  changed  clothes — but  I was  not  certain  she  was 
dead  till  I saw  Lena  Sarschine  on  board  the  Stamew — then 
I knew  my  wife  was  the  victim  of  the  Jermyn  Street 
tragedy,  but  I swear  I did  not  kill  her/’ 

Ellersby  laughed  scofhngly. 

“ Of  course  it  is  to  your  interest  to  say  that — but  who 
will  believe  you  with  such  strong  evidence  against  you  ? ” 

“ Then  I suppose  you  mean  to  denounce  me  ? ” said  the 

baronet  coldly. 

“ Not  if  you  agree  to  give  me  the  bans?  of  May  Few 

faAdL" 

" I outnot  force  her  mdinationsr* 


m 


THE  PICCADILLY  PUZZLE. 


Jtfo— but  you  are  her  guardian  and  can  influence  bm* 

*V  I refuse  ? * 

*Y©u  do  so  at  your  own  risk.” 

u And  that  risk  ? ” 

u Means  hanging  to  you ! ” said  Eflersby,  brutally. 

The  two  men  stood  looking  fixedly  at  one  another,  and 
for  a few  moments  there  was  a dead  silence,  while  the  three 
listeners  waited  with  beating  hearts  for  the  end  of  the 
conversation  which  seemed  to  promise  the  solution  of  this 
extraordinary  mystery. 

Balscombe  remained  for  a time  in  deep  thought,  and 
then  looked  up  with  a look  of  determination  in  his  eyes. 

“ I decline  to  accede  to  your  demand,”  he  said,  firmly. 

“ Then  you  must  take  the  consequence.” 

“ I am  prepared  to  do  so.j; 

Ellersby  paused  for  a minute. 

“ Will  you  tell  me  the  reason  for  your  decision?* 

“ First,  because  I am  innocent  of  the  crime  you  accuse 
me  of,  and  second,  I believe  you  placed  this  poisoned 
arrow-head  here  in  order  to  implicate  me  in  the  murder.” 

“I  can  speak  openly  to  you,”  said  Ellersby,  coolly, 
“ because  you  are  in  my  power.  I did  place  the  poisoned 
arrow-head  there,  in  order  to  secure  evidence  against 
you ! ” 

“ Then  it  was  you  killed  my  wife  1 ” cried  Balscombe, 
stepping  towards  him  with  the  arrow-head  in  his  hand. 

“I  never  said  I didl”  retorted  Ellersby,  audaciously* 
u but  I can  tell  you  this — I met  your  wife  on  that  night 
after  you  left  her,  and  I asked  her  for  those  letters  as  they 
compromised  both  her  and  myself.  She  told  me  where  they 
were  and  described  the  hiding-place  to  me.  Last  time  I was 
here  I searched  and  discovered  the  secret,  but  the  letters 
were  not  there.” 

“ No.  They  were  removed  by  me.” 

“ So  I see — but  if  I did  not  find  the  letters,  I found 
Bomething  better — the  locket  with  my  portrait  which  you  took 
from  your  wife’s  neck  on  that  night,  so  as  I wanted  to 
marry  Miss  Penfold  and  wanted  you  to  help  me,  I placed 
there  the  arrow-head  so  as  to  force  you  for  your  own  safety 
to  help  me.  I have  succeeded,  and  you  must  do  what  I 
order,  or  swing  for  it.” 

“You  devil !”  cried  Balscombe,  madly.  “It  was  you 
who  murdered  my  unhappy  wife— do  not  deny  it !— I can 


wm  mm  of  n aul 


m 

it  fe  your  cowardly  face— I will  accuse  you  before  the 
world,  and  hang  you  for  your  crime  S n 

“ Bah !— ■ who  will  believe  your  word  against  mine  ? 
There  is  no  evidence  against  me  I n 

44  Your  own  confession  1 ” 

“ Does  not  include  a confession  of  murder — what  I 
said  to  you  in  private  I will  deny  in  public — you  have  no 
witnesses.” 

44  You  lie— here  are  three  !* 

The  two  men  turned  round  with  a cry,  and  there,  on  the 
threshold  of  the  room  stood  May  Penfold  with  a look  of 
triumph  in  her  eyes— and  behind,  Dowker  and  Norwood 
Ellersby  saw  he  was  lost,  and  with  a harsh  shriek  made  a 
bound  for  the  door  of  the  library ; but  before  he  could 
reach  it  BaLscombe  threw  himself  on  him  and  bore  him  to 
the  ground.  The  two  men  rolled  on  the  floor  fighting 
desperately,  and  then  Dowker  joined  in  to  assist  in  securing 
Ellersby,  when  suddenly  his  struggles  ceased  and  he  became 
quite  passive. 

44  Its  all  over,”  he  said  quietly,  with  a livid  face,  m 
Balscombe  arose  to  his  feet  4a  I will  escape  you  yet.” 

C5  You  will  not  escape  the  gallows,”  cried  Balscombe, 

panting. 

44 Yes,  I will,”  sneered  Ellersby,  with  a ghastly  smile; 
“and  by  your  own  act  You  forgot  you  had  the  poisoned 
arrow-head  in  your  hand,  and  you  have  wounded  me — see.” 

He  held  up  his  right  hand  and  there  they  saw  a long  red 
ragged  wound  where  the  weapon  had  torn  him. 

44  In  ten  minutes  I will  be  a dead  man,”  he  said  quietly. 
* Not  all  the  science  in  the  world  can  save  me  now.” 

44  Curse  it ! ” cried  Dowker  in  a rage,  while  the  other 
three  remained  silent  with  horror. 

44  Ah ! you  are  angry  at  my  escaping  from  you,”  said 
Ellersby,  with  his  usual  cynicism.  44  Console  yourself,  my 
astute  thief-catcher,  my  capture  would  not  have  redounded 
to  your  credit,  as  you  were  quite  on  the  wrong  scent  You 
suspected  Desmond,  Calliston,  Lena  Sarschine  and  Bals- 
combe ; everyone  but  the  right  one.  I have  fooled  you  to 
the  end,  anc^  now  I am  caught,  will  yet  escape  youx 
dutches.” 

May  Penfold  stepped  towards  him. 

44  As  you  have  sinned  so  deeply,”  she  said,  in  a low  tone, 
•you  had  better  make  reparation  while  you  may  and  con- 

8 


®E£E  PICCADILLY  PUZZLK 


114 

fess  all,  so  as  to  release  Myles  from  prison.  Meanwhile,  I 
will  go  for  a doctor/' 

He  signed  her  feebly  to  remain. 

No  doctor  can  do  me  any  good/’  he  said  faintly, 
Jrojyill  tell  all  Mr.  Dowker  will,  perhaps,  write  it  down, 
^ and  if  Pm  not  too  far  gone  Pil — I'll  sign  it/' 

“ 1 will  write  your  confession,”  said  Norwood,  and,  sitting 
down  at  the  desk,  he  took  up  a pen  and  waited. 

It  was  a strange  scene.  Ellersby  lying  on  the  floor  with 
his  eyes  half  closed,  Balscombe  leaning  against  the  desk, 
with  his  clothes  all  torn  and  a white  haggard  face,  and 
May  Penfold  standing  beside  Dowker,  looking  with  pitying 
eyes  on  the  dying  man  at  her  feet. 

As  he  knew  he  had  not  long  to  live,  Ellersby  commenced 
at  once : 

M I am,  as  you  know,  the  son  of  a West  Indian,  and  came 
to  England  to  be  educated.  I was  brought  up,  in  early 
childhood,  by  a negro  nurse,  and  before  I left  Barbadoes 
she  gave  me  an  arrow-head,  which,  she  told  me,  was  steeped 
m deadly  poison,  and  that  one  scratch  would  kill.  Some- 
thing to  do  with  their  Obi  business,  I suppose.  She  told 
me  to  use  it  on  my  enemies,  but  I was  not  so  savage  as 
she  was,  though  I have  got  negro  blood  in  my  veins,  and  I 
did  not  bother  much  about  it  I finished  my  education 
and  went  into  society.  One  time,  while  down  at  Folkestone, 
5 met  Amelia  Dicksfall,  and  loved  her — you  do  not  know 
how  I loved  her — with  all  the  mad  passion  of  a Creole. 

She  led  me  on  till  I was  her  slave  and  then  refused  to 

marry  me,  for  at  least  two  years — for  what  reason  I vm 
then  ignorant,  but  now  I know  it  was  because  she  wanted 
to  marry  a title,  and  kept  me  in  hand  so  as  to  become  my 

wife  if  she  failed  to  realise  her  ambition.  I went  abroad 

and  when  I returned  a short  time  ago,  I found  she  had 
married  Balscombe.  I saw  her  and  reproached  her  with 
her  treachery,  but  she  only  laughed  at  me.  Then  I heard 
how  she  carried  on  with  Calliston  and  swore  I would  kffl 
her  if  she  preferred  him  to  me.  She  denied  that  she  cared 
for  him,  and  then  I heard  about  her  projected  elopement 
and  determined  to  make  one  more  appeal  to  her.  If  that 
failed  I took  an  oath  I would  kill  her  with  the  poisoned 
arrow-head.  I thought  I would  see  her  on  that  night,  so* 
dressing  myself  in  evening  dress,  I put  the  arrow  head  in 
my  pocket  and  went  along  to  Park  Lane.  1 was  told  she 


TEDS  EJSTD  OF  IT  AL2* 


in 

bad  gone  to  the  Countess  of  Kerstoke’s  ball  and,  thinking 
this  was  a mere  subterfuge  on  her  part,  I thought  I would 

fo  to  Calliston’s  chambers  and  see  him.  I went  along  to 
is  rooms  in  Piccadilly,  but  as  I did  not  know  where  they 
were  it  was  some  time  before  I found  them.  I was  going 
in  when  I saw  Balscombe  waiting  about,  and  wondered 
what  he  was  doing  there.  While  thus  waiting  a woman 
came  out,  and  I recognised  Lady  Balscombe  at  once.  I saw 
Sir  Rupert  go  after  her  and  witnessed  their  dispute  under 
the  lamp.  I saw  him  wrench  off  the  locket  and  then  Lady 
Balscombe  fled.  I followed,  and  found  her  wandering 
vaguely  about  in  the  fog.  She  recognised  me  and  we  had 
& stormy  interview.  I insisted  on  her  coming  to  my  hotel 
and  going  away  with  me  in  the  morning,  pointing  out  that 
aow  her  husband  had  seen  her  coming  out  of  CaiHston’s 
chambers  he  would  apply  for  a divorce.  I then  asked  her 
about  the  letters  and  she  told  me  where  they  were.  I said 
1 would  get  them,  and  then  Sir  Rupert  would  never  know 
with  whom  she  had  gone  away.  She  agreed  to  go  with  me, 
and  went  as  far  as  Jermyn  Street ; then  she  refused  to  go 
further,  saying  she  loved  Calliston  and  hated  me.  She 
insisted  on  going  down  to  Shoreham  in  the  morning,  and 
taunted  me  so  that  1 got  mad  with  anger  and  determined  to 
kill  her.  So  I apparently  agreed  to  what  she  said  and 
asked  her  to  kiss  me  for  the  last  time.  She  did  so,  and 
when  I was  embracing  her  I wounded  her  in  the  neck  with 
the  poisoned  arrow-head.  She  thought  it  was  only  a pin 
pricking  her,  but  when  she  was  dying  I told  her  what  I had 
done  and  said  that  now  she  could  never  be  any  other  man’s 
mistress  or  wife.  She  died  shortly  afterwards,  and  then  I 
thought  about  saving  myself,  so  went  along  to  the  Countess 
of  Kerstoke’s  ball,  in  order  to  prove  an  alibi  should  it  be 
necessary.  In  coming  back  I went  up  the  steps  where  I 
had  left  her  to  see  if  she  was  still  there,  thinking  the  body 
might  have  been  discovered.  It  was  still  lying  there, 
however,  so  I called  the  policeman.  The  rest  you  know. 
As  to  the  arrow-head,  I placed  it  in  there  in  looking  for 
the  letters,  in  order  to  throw  the  blame  on  Balscombe* 
because  I knew  all  his  movements  on  that  night  were  m 
favour  of  the  presumption  of  his  having  committed  th* 
crime." 

He  paused  at  this  point,  for  his  eyes  were  becoming 
glazed  and  bis  voice  was  faint  and  weak.  Norwood  had 


m 


rm  FtooABiixT  f vz%l% 


written  mat  fee  words  that  had  fallen  from  his  Kps,  and 
row  brought  the  paper  and  a pen,  in  order  for  him  to  sign 
it  The  dying  man  raised  himself  on  his  dbow  with  an 
effort  and  signed  his  name  with  difficulty  in  the  place  indi- 
cated by  the  lawyer.  When  this  was  done,  Batecoinhe  and 
Norwood  affixed  their  signatures  as  witnesses;  then  the 
latter  placed  the  confession  in  an  envelope. 

The  action  of  the  poison  being  very  rapid,  Ellmby  was 
now  in  a half-comatose  condition;  his  eyes  being  closed 
and  his  breathing  stertorous.  He  began  to  speak  again  m 
a drowsy  voice,  which  sounded  as  if  he  was  far  away  : 

41  It's  the  irony  of  Fate  . . . brought  me  here  . . to  my 

death.  I came  to  conquer  and  remain  to  die 

The  old  Greeks  were  right Man  . . . sport  of 

Fate  ......  Nemesis  . . . . wins  hands  down  .......  i i 

there  is  ......  world  ••••«••.  beyond  ....  I ...  1 

....  find ” 

His  slow  monotonous  voice  stopped  here  and  his  head 
fell  back ; to  all  appearances  he  was  asleep,  but  the  onlookers 
knew  it  was  his  last  earthly  sleep,  and  when  he  awoke  it 
would  be  in  another  world. 

Tfes  calm  placid  light  of  the  evening  stole  softly  through 
the  windows  and  shone  on  the  still  fece  of  fee  dead 
»$  on  tbs  awe-struck  spectators. 


mzimw  % 


EPILOGUE 


'Zm  Piccadilly  puzzfo  being  now  solved,  nothing  remained 
to  settle  all  matters  in  connection  therewith,  which  was 
ipeedily  done.  The  publication  of  the  whole  story  catased 
a* great  deal  of  excitement,  and  of  course  all  the  newspapers 
quoted  the  well-known  proverb  that  “Truth  is  stranger 
than  fiction.” 

Myles  Desmond  was  released  from  prison,  and  became  a 
kind  of  hero  owing  to  the  fortitude  with  which  he  had 
sustained  his  unpleasant  position.  Sir  Rupert  gave  his 
consent  to  May  Penfold's  marriage  with  him,  and  it  took 
place  act  St.  George's,  Hanover  Square,  with  great  splendour, 
and  the  happy  pair  departed  to  «he  Continent  for  their 
honeymoon.  On  their  return  Myles  published  a novel  he 
had  written,  which  was  a great  success,  and  being  in  an 
independent  position  owing  -to  his  wife's  fortune  he  had 
the  peculiar  satisfaction  of  writing  to  please  himself  and  not 
the  public. 

Lord  Callistosa  did  mt  remain  in  London  long,  as  the 
part  he  had  played  m Ike  terrible  drama  was  not  by  any 
means  an  enviable  one ; so  as  soon  as  Lena  Sarschinc,  now 
Lady  Calliston,  recovered  from  her  illness  they  went  away 
to  the  South  Seas  in  the  Seamew9  where  among  the  gorgeoa* 
scenery  of  the  islands,  they  soon  forgot  the  one  tragic 
ep’sode  of  their  lives. 

Sir  Rupert  did  not  marry  again  but  left  London  for  his 
place  in  the  country,  where  he  shut  himself  up  like  a hermit 
and  steadily  refused  to  see  anyone.  His  faith  in  woman- 
kind was  gone,  and  not  having  any  heirs,  a distant  cousin 
is  now  eagerly  waiting  for  his  demise,  as  he  is  anxious  t© 
enjoy  the  Balscombe  estates  and  the  large  income 
appertaining  thereta 


lit 


?BS  PICC  ADILLY  puma 


F&p  was  taken  off  the  streets  by  Dowker  and  put  Id 
school,  where  his  natural  sharpness  was  wonderfully  deve- 
loped, and  he  is  now  looking  forward  to  the  time  when 
Dowker  intends  to  instruct  him  in  the  mysteries  <sf  the 
detective  craft  and  make  him  his  successor. 

As  to  Dowker,  he  was  a good  deal  disappointed  at  the 
unlooked-for  termination  to  the  case,  for  had  it  not  been 
£qi  the  accident  of  overhearing  the  conversation  in  the 
library,  he  would  most  certainly  have  done  his  best  to  hang 
Sir  Rupert  Balscombe*  As  it  turned  out  that  the  baronet 
was  innocent,  he  felt  only  to®  glad  that  he  had  been  saved 
from  the  committal  of  such  a terrible  crime  as  condemning 
& guiltless  man  to  an  ignominious  death,  but  to  this  day,  h® 
always  refers  to  the  Piccadilly  Puzzle  as  the 
mtmmSmmf  cm&  that  ever  came  under  his  eKperih&m 


th; 


HAUNTED  HOUSE, 


—BY— 

SIR  E.  BULWER  LYTTON. 


NEW  YORK 

HURST  & COMPANY 

Publishers 


IHE  HAUNTED  HOUSE. 

BY  SIR  E.  BULWER  LYTTON, 

l 

A Mend  of  mine,  who  is  a man  of  letters  and  a philosopher,  said 
to  me  one  day,  as  if  between  jest  and  earnest:  “Fancy  ! since  last 
we  met,  I have  discovered  a haunted  house  in  the  midst  c£  London.” 

“ Really  haunted  ?— and  by  what  ? ghosts  ? ” 

“Well,  I can’t  answer  that  question!  all  I know  is  this— six 
weeks  ago  my  wife  and  I were  in  search  of  a furnished  apartment. 
Passing  a quiet  street,  we  saw  on  the  window  of  one  of  the  houses 
a bill,  1 Apartments  Furnished.’  The  situation  suited  us;  we 
entered  the  house — liked  the  rooms— engaged  them  by  the  week— 
and  left  them  the  third  day.  No  power  on  earth  could  have  recon* 
eiled  my  wife  to  stay  longer;  and  I don’t  wonder  at  it.” 

“ What  did  you  see  ? n 

“Excuse  me — I have  no  desire  to  be  ridiculed  as  a superstitious 
dreamer — nor,  on  the  other  hand,  could  I ask  you  to  accept  on  my 
affirmation  what  you  would  hold  to  be  incredible  without  the 
evidence  of  your  own  senses.  Let  me  only  say  this,  it  is  not  so 
much  what  we  saw  or  heard  (in  which  you  might  fairly  suppose 
that  we  were  the  dupes  of  our  own  excited  fancy,  or  the  victims  of 
imposture  in  others),  that  drove  us  away,  as  it  was  an  undefinable 
terror  which  seized  both  of  us  whenever  we  passed  by  the  door  of  a 
certain  unfurnished  room,  in  which  we  neither  saw  nor  heard  any- 
thing. And  the  strangest  marvel  of  all  was,  that  for  once  in  my 
life  I agreed  with  my  wife,  silly  woman  though  she  be— and  allowed, 
after  the  third  night,  that  it  was  impossible  to  stay  a fourth  in  that 
house.  Accordingly,  on  the  fourth  morning,  I summoned  the 
woman  who  kept  the  house  and  attended  on  us,  and  told  her  that 
the  rooms  did  not  quite  suit  us,  and  we  could  not  stay  out  our 
week,  She  said,  dryly, 4 I know  why ; you  have  stayed  longer 
than  sny  other  lodger.  Few  ever  stayed  a second  night;  » mm 


z 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE 


fo&fbr©  yen  & third.  But  I take  it  they  have  been  very  kind  to  yoo.f 

“ ‘They— who? 9 1 asked,  affecting  a smile. 

* 'Why,  they  who  haunt  the  house,  whoever  they  are.  I don’t 
mind  them  ; I remember  them  many  years  ago,  when  I lived  in 
this  house,  not  as  a servant ; but  I know  they  will  be  the  death  o i 
me  some  day.  I don’t  care— I7m  old,  and  must  die  soon  anyhow ; 
and  then  I shall  be  with  them,  and  in  this  house  still.’  The  woman 
spoke  with  so  dreary  a sadness,  that  really  it  was  a sort  of  awe 
that  prevented  my  conversing  with  her  further.  I paid  for  my 
week,  and  too  happy  were  I and  . my  wife  to  get  off  so  cheaply.” 

“ Yon  excite  my  curiosity,”  said  I ; “ nothing  I should  like  better 
than  to  sleep  in  a haunted  house.  Pray  give  me  the  address  of  the 
ene  which  you  left  so  ignominously.  ” 

My  Mend  gave  me  the  address;  and  when  we  parted,  I walked 
straight  towards  the  house  thus  indicated. 

It  is  situated  on  the  north  side  of  Oxford  street,  in  a dull  but 
respectable  thoroughfare.  I found  the  house  shut  up — no  bill  at 
the  window,  and  no  response  to  my  knock.  As  I was  turning  away, 
a beer  boy,  collecting  pewter  pots  at  the  neighboring  areas,  said  to 
me  s “Bo  you  want  any  one  at  that  house,  sir  ? ” 

“ Yes,  I heard  it  was  to  he  let.  ” 

u Let !— why,  the  woman  who  kept  it  is  dead— has  been  dead 
these  three  weeks,  and  no  one  can  be  found  to  stay  there,  though 

Mr.  J —offered  ever  so  much.  He  offered  mother,  who  chars 

for  Mm,  £1  a week  just  to  open  and  shut  the  windows,  and  she 
would  not.  ” 

u Would  not !— and  why  ? ” 

f “The  house  is  haunted;  and  the  old  woman  who  kept  it  was 
found  dead  in  her  bed,  with  her  eyes  wide  open.  They  say  the 
devil  strangled  her.  * * / 

“Pooh!  —you  speak  of  Mr.  J— — . Is  he  the  owner  of  the 
house?” 


“Yes.”  ^ 

“Where  does  he  live?” 

' “In  G- "Street,  No. * 

“ What  is  he ? — in  any  business?” 

“No,  sir— nothing  particular  ; a single  gentleman.*9 
I gave  the  pot-boy  the  gratuity  earned  by  his  liberal  information 
smd  proceeded  to  Mr.  J in  G— ——Street*  which  was  dose  bj 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE  \ 9 

t&e  street  that  boasted  the  haunted  house.  I was  lucky  enough 
to  find  Mr.  J— — at  home— an  elderly  man,  with  intelligent 
countenance  and  prepossessing  manners. 

I communicated  my  name  and  my  business  frankly,  I said  I 
heard  the  house  was  considered  to  be  haunted — that  I had  a strong 
desire  to  examine  a house  with  so  equivocal  a reputation— that  I 
should  be  greatly  obliged  if  he  would  allow  me  to  hire  it,  though 
only  for  a night.  I was  willing  to  pay  for  that  privilege  whatever 
he  might  he  inclined  to  ask.  “Sir, 5 ’.said  Mr.  J— with  great 
courtesy,  “the  house  is  at  your  service,  for  as  short  or  as  long  a 
time  as  you  please.  Rent  is  out  of  the  question— the  obligation 
will  be  on  my  side  should  you  foe  able  to  discover  the  cause  of  the 
strange  phenomena  which  at  present  deprive  it  of  all  value.  I 
cannot  let  it,  for  I cannot  even  get  a servant  to  keep  it  in  order  or 
answer  the  door.  Unluckily  the  house  is  haunted,  if  I may  use 
that  expression,  not  only  by  night,  but  by  day;  though  at  night  the 
disturbances  are  of  a more  unpleasant  and  sometimes  of  a more 
alarming  character.  The  poor  old  women  who  died  in  itthree  weeks 
ago  was  a pauper  whom  I took  out  of  a work-house,  for  in  her  child® 
hood  she  had  been  known  to  some  of  my  family,  and  had  once  been 
in  such  good  circumstances  that  she  had  rented  that  house  of  my 
uncle.  She  was  a women  of  superior  education  and  strong  mind, 
and  was  the  only  person  I could  ever  induce  to  remain  in  the  house. 
Indeed,  since  her  death,  which  was  sudden,  and  the  coroner’s 
inquest,  which  gave  it  a notoriety  in  the  neighborhood,  I have  so 
despaired  of  finding  any  person  to  ^ake  charge  of  the  house,  much 
more  a tenant,  that  I would  willingly  let  it  rent-free  for  a year  to 
any  one  who  would  pay  its  rates  and  taxes.” 

“ How  long  is  it  since  the  house  acquired  this  sinister  character?” 

u That  I can  scarcely  tell  you,  hut  very  many  years  since.  The 
old  woman  I spoke  of  said  it  was  haunted  when  she  rented  it 
between  thirty  and  forty  yearsago.  The  fact  is,  that  my  life  has  been 
spent  in  the  East  Indies,  and  in  the  civil  service  of  the  Company, 
I returned  to  England  last  year,  on  inheriting  the  fortune  of  m 
uncle,  among  whose  possession  was,  the  house  in  question.  I found 
it  shut  up,  and  uninhabited.  I was  told  that  it  was  haunted,  that 
no  one  would  inhabit.  I smiled  at  what  seemed  to  me  so  idle  a 
story.  I spent  some  money  in  repairing  ilb— added  to  its  old-fashioa 
tontae  a few  modern  it*  and  obtained  a 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE 


4 

lodger  for  a year.  He  was  a colonel  retired  on  half-pay.  Ho  <mm 
in  with  his  family,  a son  and  a daughter,  and  four  or  five  servants; 
they  all  left  the  house  the  next  day;  and  although  each  of  them 
declared  that  he  seen  something  different  from  that  which  had 
scared  the  others,  a something  still  was  equally  terrible  to  all.  1 
really  could  not  in  conscience  sue,  nor  even  blame,  the  colonel  for 
breach  of  agreement.  Then  I put  in  the  old  women  I have  spoken 
of,  and  she  was  empowered  to  let  the  house  in  apartments.  I never 
had  one  lodger  who  stayed  more  than  three  days.  I do  not  tell 
you  their  stories — to  no  two  lodgers  have  there  been  exactly  the 
same  phenomena  repeated.  It  is  better  that  yon  should  judge  for 
yourself,  than  enter  the  house  with  an  imagination  influenced  by 
previous  narratives ; only  be  prepared  to  see  and  to  hear  something 
or  other,  and  take  what  ever  precaution  you  yourself  please.” 

“Had  you  never  a curiosity  yourself  to  pass  a night  in  that 
house?” 

“Yes;  I passed  not  a night,  but  three  hours  in  broad  day-light  in 
that  house.  My  curiosity  is  not  satisfied,  but  it  is  quenched,  f 
have  no  desire  to  renew  the  experiment.  You  cannot  complain,  you 
see,  sir,  that  I am  not  sufficiently  candid  ; and  unless  your  interest 
be  exceedingly  eager,  and  your  nerves  unusually  strong,  I honestly 
add,  that  I advise  you  not  to  pass  a night  in  that  house.” 

“ My  interest  is  exceedingly  keen,”  said  I,  “and  though  only  a 
coward  will  boast  of  his  nerves  in  situations  wholly  unfamiliar  to 
him,  yet  my  nerves  have  been  seasoned  in  such  variety  of  danger 
that  I have  the  right  to  rely  on  them — even  in  a haunted  house.” 

“ Mr.  J — said  very  little  more  ; he  took  the  keys  of  the 

house  out  of  his  bureau,  gave  them  to  me,  and  thanking  him  cor- 
dially for  his  frankness,  and  his  urbane  concession  to  my  wish,  I car- 
ried off  my  prize. 

Impatient  for  the  experiment,  as  soon  as  I reached  home,  I sum- 
moned my  confidential  servant— a young  man  of  gay  spirits,  fear- 
less temper,  and  as  free  from  superstitious  prejudice  as  any  one  I 
could  think  o£ 

“ F— * said  I,  “ you  remember  in  Germany  how  disappointed 
we  were  at  not  finding  a ghost  in  that  old  castle,  which  was  said  to 
he  haunted  by  a headless  apparition?  Well,  I have  heard  of* 
house  in  London  which,  I have  reason  to  hope,  is  decidedly  haunted. 
X mean  to  sleep  there  to-night.  From  what  I hear,  there  is  £feS 
* , ’ v.  ‘ : ' * — * - 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE. 


doubt  that  something  will  allow  itself  to  be  mm  or  to  be  beards 
something,  perhaps,  excessively  horrible.  Do  you  think,  if  I tafefe 
you  with  me,  I may  rely  on  your  presence  of  mind,  whatever  may 
happen  ?” 

“Oh,  sir!  pray  trust  me,”  answered  p— grinning  with 
delight.” 

“Very  well  5 then  here  are  the  keys  sf  the  house— this  is  the 
address.  Go  now— select  for  me  any  bed-room  you  please ; and 
since  the  house  has  not  been  inhabited  for  weeks,  make  up  a good 
fire— air  the  bed  well— see,  of  course,  that  there  are  candles  as  well 
as  fuel.  Take  with  you  my  revolver  and  my  dagger — so  much  for 
my  weapons — arm  yourself  equally  well ! and  if  we  are  not  a 
match  for  a dozen  ghosts,  we  shall  be  but  a sorry  ample  of  English* 
men.” 

I was  engaged  for  the  rest  of  the  day  on  business  so  urgent  that 
I had  not  leisure  to  think  much  on  the  nocturnal  adventure  to 
which  I had  plighted  my  honor,  I dined  alone,  and  very  late,  and 
while  dining,  read,  as  is  my  habit.  I selected  one  of  the  volumes 
of  Macaulay’s  Essays.  I thought  to  myself  that  I would  take  the 
book  with  me ; there  was  so  much  of  healthfulness  in  the  style,  and 
practical  life  in  the  subjects,  that  it  would  serve  as  an  antidote 
against  the  influences  of  superstitious  fancy. 

Accordingly,  about  half-past  nine,  I put  the  book  into  my  pocket, 
and  strolled  leisurely  towards  the  haunted  house.  I took  with  me 
a favorite  dog— an  exceedingly  sharp,  bold,  and  vigilant  bull-ter- 
rier—a dog  fond  of  prowling  about  strange  ghostly  comers  and  pas- 
sages at  night  in  search  of  rats— a dog  of  dogs  for  a ghost. 

It  was  a summer  night,  but  chilly,  the  sky  somewhat  gloomy  and 
overcast.  Still  there  was  a moon — faint  and  sickly,  but  still  a 
moon— and  if  the  clouds  permitted,  after  midnight  it  would  be 
brighter. 

I reached  the  house,  knocked,  and  my  servant  evened  with  a 
fhl  smile. 

“All  right,  sir,  and  very  comfortable.” 

<cOh!”said  I,  rather  disappointed ; M have  you  not  seen  or  heard 
anything  remarkable?  ” 

u Well,  sir,  I must  own  I have  heard  something  queer.” 
«What?~wbat?” 


6 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE. 


% 

A 

“ The  sound  of  feet  pattering  behind  me 5 and  once  or  twice  wsSi 
noises  like  whispers  close  at  my  ear— nothing  more.5* 

u You  are  not  at  all  frightened  ? * 

m I ! not  a bit  of  it,  sir ; ” and  the  man’s  bold  look  reassured  me 
©n  one  point — viz.,  that,  happen  what  might,  he  would  not  desert 

We  were  in  the  hall,  the  street  door  closed,  and  my  attention  was 
now  drawn  to  my  dog.  He  had  at  first  run  in  eagerly  enough,  but 
had  sneaked  back  to  the  door,  and  was  scratching  and  whining  to 
get  out.  After  patting  him  on  the  head,  and  encouraging  him  gen* 
Hy,  the  dog  seemed  to  reconcile  himself  to  the  situation,  and  fol- 

owed  me  and  F through  the  house,  but  keeping  close  at  my 

heels  instead  of  hurrying  inquisitively  in  advance,  which  was  his 
usual  and  normal  habit  in  all  strange  places.  We  first  visited  the 
subterranean  apartments,  the  kitchen  and  other  offices,  and  especi- 
ally the  cellars,  in  which  last  there  were  two  or  three  bottles  of 
wine  still  left  in  a bin,  covered  with  cobwebs,  and,  evidently,  by 
their  appearance,  undisturbed  for  many  years.  It  was  clear  that 
the  ghosts  were  not  winebibbers.  For  the  rest  we  discovered  noth- 
ing of  interest.  There  was  a gloomy,  little  hack-yard,  with  very 
? high  walls.  The  stones  of  this  yard  were  very  damp ; and  what 
with  the  damp,  and  what  with  the  dust  and  smoke-grime  on  the 
pavement,  our  feet  left  a slight  impression  where  we  passed.  And 
now  appeared  the  6rst  strange  phenomenon  witnessed  by  myself 
in  this  strange  abode.  I saw,  just  before  me,  the  print  of  a foot  sud- 
denly form  itself,  as  it  were.  I stopped,  caught  hold  of  my  servant 
and  pointed  to  it.  In  advance  of  the  footprint  as  suddenly  dropped 
another.  W©  both  saw  it.  I advanced  quickly  to  the  place,  the 
footprint  kept  advancing  before  me,  a small  footprint — the  foot  of  a 
child  ; the  impression  was  too  faint  thoroughly  to  distinguish  the 
shape,  hut  it  seemed  to  us  both  that  it  was  the  print  of  a naked  foot. 
This  phenomenon  ceased  when  we  arrived  at  the  opposite  wall,  nor 
did  it  repeat  itself  on  returning.  We  remounted  the  stairs,  and 
entered  the  rooms  on  the  ground  floor,  a dining  parlor,  a small  back 
parlor,  and  a still  smaller  third  room  that  had  been  probably 
appropriated  to  a footman — all  still  as  death.  We  then  visited  the 
drawing-rooms,  which  seemed  fresh  and  new.  In  the  front  room 

I seated  myself  in  the  arm-chair.  F placed  on  the  table  the 

fiaBdlesticb  with  which  he  had  lighted  us.  I told  him  to  shut  the 


i 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE  $ 

door.  As  he  turned  to  do  so,  a chair  opposite  to  me  moved  fro®a 
the  wall  quickly  and  noiselessly,  and  dropped  itself  about  a yard 
from  my  own  chair,  immediately  fronting  it. 

“ Why,  this  is  better  than  the  turning-tables,”  said  I,  with  a half* 
laugh ; and  as  I laughed,  my  dog  put  back  his  head  and  howled. 

F — coming  back,  had  not  observed  the  movement  of  the  chair. 
He  employed  himself  now  in  stilling  the  dog.  I continued  to  gasse 
on  the  chair,  and  fancied  I saw  on  it  a pale,  bine,  misty  outline  of 
a human  figure,  but  an  outline  so  indistinct  that  I could  only  dis- 
trust my  own  vision.  The  dog  now  was  quiet.  “Put  back  that 
chair  opposite  to  me,”  said  I to  F S <s  put  it  back  to  the  walL” 

F obeyed.  “ Was  that  you,  sir?”  said  he,  turning  abruptly. 

“I! — what?” 

“ Why,  something  struck  me.  I felt  it  sharply  on  the  Shoulder 
—just  here.” 

“No,”  said  L “But  we  have  jugglers  present,  and  thougjh  ws 
may  not  discover  their  tricks,  we  shall  catch  them  before  they 
frighten  us” 

“We  did  not  stay  long  in  the  drawing-rooms — in  fact,  they  felt 
so  damp  and  so  chilly  that  I was  glad  to  get  to  the  fire  upstairs.  We 
locked  the  doors  of  the  drawing-rooms — a precaution  which,  1 should 
observe,  we  had  taken  with  all  the  rooms  we  had  searched  below. 
The  bedroom  my  servant  had  selected  for  me  was  the  best  on  the 
floor — a large  one,  with  two  windows  fronting  the  street.  The 
four-posted  bed,  which  took  up  no  inconsiderable  space,  was  opposite 
to  the  fire,  which  burned  clear  and  bright ; a door  in  the  wall  to 
the  left,  between  the  bed  and  the  window,  communicated  with  the 
room  which  my  servant  appropriated  to  himself.  This  last  was  a 
small  room  with  a sofa-bed,  and  had  no  communication  with  the 
landing-place — no  other  door  but  that  which  conducted  to  the  bed- 
room  I was  to  occupy.  On  either  side  of  my  fire-place  was  a cup® 
board,  without  locks,  flush  with  the  wall,  and  covered  with  the 
same  dull-brown  paper.  W e examined  these  cupboards — only  hooks 
to  suspend  female  dresses — nothing  else ; we  sounded  the  walls— evi- 
dently solid — the  outer  walls  of  the  building.  Having  finished  the 
survey  of  these  apartments,  warmed  myself  a few  moments,  and 

lighted  my  cigar,  I then,  still  accompanied  by  F , went  forth  to 

complete  my  reconnoitre.  In  the  landing-place ‘there  was  another 
door 5 it  was  closed  firmly.  “Sir,”  said  my  servant,  in  surprise 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE \ 


“I  unlocked  this  door  with  all  the  others  when  I first  came  5 it  cam; 
not  have  got  locked  from  the  inside,  for ” 

Before  he  had  finished  his  sentence,  the  door,  which  neither  of 
ns  then  was  touching,  opened  quietly  of  itself.  We  looked  at  each 
other  an  instant.  The  same  thought  seized  both — some  human 
agency  might  be  detected  here.  I rushed  in  first,  my  servant  fol- 
lowed. A small,  blank,  dreary  room  without  furniture — a few 
empty  boxes  and  hampers  in  a corner — a small  window — the  shut- 
ters closed— not  even  a fireplace — no  other  door  but  that  by  which 
we  had  entered — no  carpet  on  the  floor,  and  the  floor  seemed  very 
old,  uneven,  worm-eaten,  mended  here  and  there,  as  was  shown  by 
the  whiter  patches  on  the  wood ; but  no  living  being,  and  no  visible 
place  in  which  a living  being  could  have  hidden.  As  we  stood 
gazing  around,  the  door  by  which  we  had  entered  closed  as  quietly 
as  it  had  before  opened ; we  were  imprisoned. 

For  the  first  time  I felt  a creep  of  undefinable  horror.  Not  so  my 
servant.  “ Why,  they  don’t  think  to  trap  us,  sir;  I could  break  that 
trumpery  door  with  a kick  of  my  foot.  ” 

11  Try  first  if  it  will  open  to  your  hand,”  said  I,  shaking  off  the 
vague  apprehension  that  had  siezed  me,  “while  I unclose  the  shut- 
ters and  see  what  is  without.” 

I unbarred  the  shutters— the  window  looked  on  the  little  back- 
yard I have  before  described  5 there  was  no  ledge  without — nothing 
to  break  the  sheer  descent  of  the  wall.  No  man  getting  out  of  that 
window  would  have  found  any  footing  till  he  had  fallen  on  the 
stones  below. 

F , meanwhile,  was  vainly  attempting  to  open  the  door.  He 

now  turned  round  to  me,  and  asked  my  permission  to  use  force.  And 
I should  here  state,  in  justice  to  the  servant,  that,  far  from  evincing 
any  superstitious  terrors,  his  nerve,  composure,  and  even  gaiety 
amidst  circumstances  so  extraordinay,  compelled  my  admiration, 
and  made  me  congratulate  myself  on  having  secured  a companion 
in  every  way  fitted  to  the  occasion.  I willingly  gave  him  the  per- 
mission he  required.  But  though  he  was  a remarkably  strong 
man,  his  force  was  as  idle  as  his  milder  efforts  ; the  door  did  not 
even  shake  to  his  stoutest  kick.  Breathless  and  panting,  he 
desisted.  I then  tried  the  door  myself,  equally  in  vain.  As  I 
ceased  from  the  effort,  again  that  creep  of  horror  came  over  me ; 
but  this  it  was  more  cold  and  stubborn.  I felt  as  if  some 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE 


9 


strange  and  ghastly  exhalation  were  rising  up  ffi&m.  the  eisinfeg  of 
that  rugged  floor,  and  filling  the  atmosphere  with  a venomous  in- 
fluence hostile  to  human  life.  The  door  now  very  slowly  and 
quietly  opened  as  if  of  its  own  accord.  We  precipitated  ourselves 
into  the  landing-place.  We  both  saw  a large,  pale  light— as  lasge 
as  the  human  figure,  but  shapeless  and  unsubstantial— move 
before  us,  and  ascend  the  stairs  that  led  from  the  landing  into  the 
attics.  I followed  the  light,  and  my  servant  followed  me.  It 
entered,  to  the  right  of  the  landing,  a small  garret,  of  which  the 
door  stood  open.  I entered  in  the  same  instant.  Th©  light  then 
collapsed  into  a small  globule,  exceedingly  brilliant  and  vivid ; 
rested  a moment  on  a bed  in  the  corner,  quivered  and  vanished. 
We  approached  the  bed  and  examined  it — a half-tester,  such  as  is 
commonly  found  in  attics  devoted  to  servants.  On  the  drawers 
that  stood  near  it  were  perceived  an  old,  faded  silk  kerchief,  with 
the  needle  still  left  in  a rent  half  repaired.  The  kerchief  was  cov- 
ered with  dust ; probably  it  had  belonged  to  the  old  woman  who 
had  last  died  in  that  house,  and  this  might  have  been  her  sleeping- 
room.  I had  sufficient  curiosity  to  open  the  drawers ; there  were 
a few  odds  and  ends  of  female  dress,  and  two  letters  tied  round 
with  a narrow  ribbon  of  faded  yellow.  I took  the  liberty  to  pos- 
sess myself  of  the  letters.  We  found  nothing  else  in  the  room 
worth  noticing — nor  did  the  light  reappear ; but  we  distinctly 
heard,  as  we  turned  to  go,  a pattering  footfall  on  the  floor— just 
before  us.  We  went  through  the  other  attics  (in  all  four),  the 
footfall  still  preceding  us.  Nothing  to  be  Seen— nothing  but  the 
foot-fall  heard.  I had  the  letters  in  my  hand  $ just  as  I was 
descending  the  stairs  I distinctly  felt  my  wrist  seised,  and  a faint, 
soft  effort  made  to  draw  the  letters  from  my  daspt  I «nly  held 
them  the  more  tightly,  and  the  effort  ceased. 

We  regained  the  bedchamber  appropriated  to  myself,  and  I then 
remarked  that  my  dog  had  not  followed  us  when  we  had  left  it. 

He  was  thrusting  himself  close  to  the  fire,  and  trembling.  I was 
impatient  to  examine  the  letters;  and  while  I read  them,  my  ser- 
, vant  opened  a little  box  in  which  he  had  deposited  the  weapons  I 
had  ordered  him  to  bring ; took  them  out,  placed  them  on  a table 
dose  to  my  bed-head,  and  then  occupied  himself  in  sootMpg  the  dog, 
however,  seemed  to  heed  him  Mife 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE 


10 

The  letters  were  short— -they  were  dated  5 the  dates  exactly  thirty* 
five  years  ago.  They  were  evidently  from  a lover  to  his  mistress,  of 
$ husband  to  some  young  wife.  Not  only  the  terms  of  expression,  but 
a distinct  reference  to  a former  voyage,  indicated  the  writer  to  have 
been  a seafarer.  The  spelling  and  hand- writing  were  those  of  a man 
imperfectly  educated,  but  still  the  language  itself  was  forcible.  In 
the  expressions  of  endearment  there  was  a kind  of  rough,  wild  love ; 
but  here  and  there  were  dark  unintelligible  hints  at  some  secret  not 
of  love— some  secret  that  seemed  of  crime.  “We  ought  to  love 
each  other,  ” was  one  of  the  sentences  I remember, u for  how  every 
one  elso  would  execrate  us  if  all  was  known.  ” Again : “ Don’t  let 
any  one  be  in  the  same  room  with  you  at  night — you  talk  in  your 
sleep.”  And  again:  “what’s  done  can’t  be  undone;  and  I tell 
you  there’s  nothing  against  us  unless  the  dead  could  come  to  life.” 
Here  there  was  underlined  in  a better  handwriting  (a  female’s), 
“They  do ! ” At  the  end  of  the  letter  latest  in  date  the  same 
female  hand  had  written  these  words : “ Lost  at  sea  the  4th  oj 
June,  the  same  day  as — — ” 

I put  down  the  letters,  and  began  to  muse  over  their  contents. 

Fearing,  however,  that  the  train  of  thoughts  into  which  I fell 
might  unsteady  my  nerves,  I fully  determined  to  keep  my  mind  in 
a fit  state  to  cope  with  whatever  of  marvelous  the  advancing  night 
might  bring  forth.  I roused  myself— laid  the  letters  on  the  table — 
fctirred  up  the  fire,  which  was  still  bright  and  cheering — and  opened 
my  volume  of  Macaulay,  I read  quietly  enough  until  about  half- 
past  eleven.  I then  threw  myself  dressed  upon  the  bed,  and  told 
my  servant  he  might  retire  to  his  own  room,  but  must  keep  him- 
self awake.  I bade  him  leave  open  the  door  between  the  two  rooms. 
Thus  alone,  I kept  two  candles  burning  on  the  table  by  my  bed- 
head. I Jaced  my  watch  beside  the  weapons,  and  calmly  resumed 
my  Macaulay.  Opposite  to  me  the  fire  burned  clear ; and  on  the 
hearth-rug,  seemingly  asleep,  lay  the  dog.  In  about  twenty  min- 
utes I felt  an  exceedingly  cold  air  pass  by  my  cheek,  like  a sudden 
draught.  I fancied  the  door  to  my  right,  communicating  with  the 
landing-place,  must  have  got  open ; but  no — it  was  closed.  I then 
turned  my  glance  to  my  left  and  saw  the  flame  of  the  candles  vio- 
lently swayed  as  by  a wind.  At  the  same  moment  the  watch  beside 
the  revolver  softly  slid  from  the  table — softly,  softly — no  visible 
band— it  was  gone.  I sprang  up*  seizing  the  revolver  with  one 


THE  HAUNTED  -HOUSE. 


n 


hand,  the  dagger  with  the  other:  I was  not  willing  that  my  weap* 
ons  should  share  the  fate  of  the  watch.  Thus  armed  I looked  round 
die  floor— -no  sign  of  the  watch.  Three  slow,  loud,  distinct  knocks 
were  now  heard  at  the  bed-head ; my  servant  called  out, 44  Is  that 
you,  sir  ? ” 

“ No ; he  on  your  guard.  * 9 

The  dog  now  roused  himself  and  sat  on  his  launches,  his  ears 
moving  quickly  backwards  and  forwards.  He  kept  his  eyes  fixed 
on  me  with  a look  so  strange  that  he  concentrated  all  attention  on 
himself.  Slowly  he  rose  up,  all  his  hair  bristling,  and  stood  per* 
fectly  rigid,  and  with  the  same  wild  stare.  I had  no  time,  however 
to  examine  the  dog.  Presently  my  servant  emerged  from  his  room! 
and  if  ever  I saw  horror  in  the  human  face,  it  was  then.  I should 
not  have  recognized  him  had  we  met  in  the  street,  so  altered  was 
every  lineament.  He  passed  by  me  quickly,  saying  in  a whisper 
that  seemed  scarcely  to  come  from  his  lips,  64  Kun— run ! it  is  after 
sne  ! ’ 9 He  gained  the  door  to  the  landing,  pulled  it  open,  and  rushed 
forth.  I followed  him  into  the  landing  involuntarily,  calling  to  him 
to  stop : but,  without  heeding  me,  he  bounded  down  the  stairs,  cling* 
ing  to  the  balusters,  and  taking  several  steps  at  a time.  I heard, 
where  I stood,  the  street-door  open— heard  it  again  clap  to.  I w m 
tefit  alone  in  the  haunted  house. 

It  was  but  for  a moment  that  I remained  undecided  whether  Of 
not  to  follow  my  servant : pride  and  curiosity  alike  forbade  so  das* 
tardly  a flight.  I re-entered  my  room,  closing  the  door  after  me, 
©Bid  preceded  cautiously  into  the  interior  chamber.  I encountered 
nothing  to  justify  my  servant’s  terror.  I again  carefully  examined 
the  walls,  to  see  if  there  were  any  concealed  door.  I could  find  no 
tace  of  one— not  even  a seam  in  the  dull -brown  paper  with  which 
to  room  was  hung.  How  then,  had  the  thing,  whatever  it  was, 
which  had  so  seared  him,  obtained  ingress  except  through  my  mm 
Chamber  ? 

I returned  to  iny  room,  shut  and  locked  the  door  that  opened 
upon  the  interior  one,  and  stood  on  the  hearth,  expectant  and  pre* 
pared.  I now  perceived  that  the  dog  had  slunk  into  an  angle  of 
the  wall,  and  was  pressing  himself  close  against  it,  as  if  literally 
striving  to  force  his  way  into  it.  I approached  the  animal  and 
spoke  to  it  j the  poor  brute  was  evidently  beside  itself  with  terror. 
It  showed  all  its  teeth*,  the  saliva  dropping  from  its  Jaws*  and 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE. 


%% 

would  eerWnly  have  bitten  me  if  I bad  touched  it.  It  did  not 
seem  to  recognise  me.  Whoever  has  seen  at  the  Zoological  Gardens 
a rabbit  fascinated  by  a serpent,  cowering  in  a comer,  may  form 
some  idea  of  the  anguish  which  the  dog  exhibited.  Finding  all 
efforts  to  soothe  the  animal  in  vain,  and  fearing  that  his  bite  might 
be  as  venomous  in  that  state  as  in  the  madness  of  hydrophobia,  I 
left  him  alone,  placed  my  weapons  on  the  table  beside  the  fire^ 
seated  myself,  and  re-commenced  my  Macaulay. 

Perhaps,  in  order  pot  to  appear  seeking  credit  for  a courage,  or 
rather  a coolness,  which  the  reader  may  conceive  I exaggerate,  1 
may  be  pardoned  if  I pause  to  indulge  in  one  or  two  egotistical 
remarks. 

As  I hold  presence  of  mind,  or  what  is  called  courage,  to  be  pre- 
cisely proportioned  to  familiarity  with  the  circumstances  that  lead 
to  it,  so  I should  say  that  I had  been  long  sufficiently  familiar  with 
all  experiments  that  appertain  to  the  Marvelous.  I had  witnessed 
many  very  extraordinary  phenomena  that  would  be  either  totally 
disbelieved  if  I stated  them,  or  ascribed  to  supernatural  agencies. 
Now,  my  theory  is  that  the  Supernatural  is  the  Impossible,  and 
that  what  is  called  supernatural  is  only  a something  in  the  laws  of 
nature,  of  which  we  have  been  hitherto  ignorant.  Therefore,  if  a 
ghost  rise  before  me,  I have  not  the  right  to  say,  “ So,  then,  the 
supernatural  is  possible,”  but  rather,  “ So,  then,  the  apparition  of  a 
ghost  is,  contrary  to  received  opinion,  within  the  laws  of  nature — 
i . e.  not  supernatural. 

Now,  in  all  that  I had  hitherto  witnessed,  and,  indeed,  in  all  the 
wonders  which  the  amateurs  of  mystery  in  our  age  record  as  facts, 
a material  living  agency  is  always  required.  On  the  Continent  yon 
will  find  still  magicians  who  assert  that  they  can  raise  spirits. 
Assume  for  the  moment  that  they  assert  truly,  still  the  living  mar 
terialformof  the  magician  is  present ; and  he  is  the  material  agency 
by  which,  from  some  constitutional  peculiarities,  certain  strange 
phenomena  are  represented  to  your  natural  senses. 

Accept,  again,  as  truthful  the  tales  of  Spirit  Manifestation  in 
America — musical  or  other  sounds — writings  on  paper,  produced  by 
no  discernable  hand — articles  of  furniture  moved  without  apparent 
human  agency-— or  the  actual  sight  and  touch  of  hands,  to  which 
no  bodies  seem  to  belong— -still  there  must  be  found  the  medium  or 
living  with  eoratitnUonal  peculiarities  capable  of  obtaining 


THE  HAUNTEP  HOUSE 


*3 


these  signs.  In  fine,  in  all  such  marvels,  supposing  even  that  there 
Is  no  imposture  there  must  be  a human  being  like  ourselves,  by 
whom,  or  through  whom,  the  effects  presented  to  human  beings  are 
produced.  It  is  so  with  the  now  familiar  phenomena  of  mesmerism 
or  electro-biology ; the  mind  of  the  person  operated  on  is  affected 
through  a material  living  agent.  Nor  supposing  it  true  that  a mes- 
merized patient  caaa  respond  to  the  will  or  passes  of  a mesmerizer  a 
hundred  miles  distant,  is  the  response  less  occasioned  by  a material 
being , it  may  be  through  a material  fluid— call  it  Electric,  call  it 
Odic,  call  it  what  you  will — which  has  the  power  of  traversing  space 
and  passing  obstacles,  that  the  material  effect  is  communicated  from 
one  to  the  other.  Hence  all  that  I had  hitherto  witnessed,  ©r 
expected  to  witness,  in  this  strange  house,  I believed  to  he  occa- 
sioned through  some  agency  or  medium  as  mortal  as  myself ; and 
this  idea  necessarily  prevented  the  awe  with  which  those  who  regard 
as  supernatural  things  that  are  not  within  the  ordinary  operation 
of  nature,  might  have  been  impressed  by  tbe  adventures  of  that 
memorable  night. 

As,  then,  it  was  my  conjecture  that  all  that  was  presented,  or 
would  be  presented,  to  my  senses*  must  originate  in  some  human 
being  gifted  by  constitution  with  the  power  so  to  present  them, 
and  having  some  motive  so  to  do,  I felt  an  interest  in  my  theory 
which,  in  its  way,  was  rather  philosophical  than  superstitious; 
And  I can  sincerely  say  that  I was  in  as  tranquil  a temper  for  obser- 
vation as  any  practical  experimentalist  could  be  in  awaiting  the 
effects  of  some  rare,  though  perhaps  perilous,  chemical  combina- 
tion. Of  course,  tbe  more  I kept  my  mind  detached  from  fancy, 
tbe  more  the  temper  fitted  for  observation  would  be  obtained ; and 
I therefore  riveted  eye  and  thought  on  the  strong  daylight  sense 
in  the  page  of  my  Macaulay. 

I now  became  aware  that  something  interposed  between  the  page 
and  the  light — the  page  was  over-shadowed;  I looked  up,  and  I 
saw  what  I shall  find  it  very  difficult,  perhaps  impossible,  to 
describe. 

It  was  a Darkness  shaping  itself  forth  from  the  air  in  very  unde- 
fined outline.  I cannot  say  it  was  of  a human  form,  and  yet  it 
had  more  resemblance  to  a human  form,  or  rather  shadow,  than  to 
anything  else.  As  it  stood,  wholly  apart  and  distinct  from  the  sdff 
and  the  light  around  it,  its  dimensions  seemed  gigaoii%  ttoe  mm* 


TBM  m/kVNTEB  HOUSE 


mii  nearlyimiehing  the  ceiling.  I gazed,  a feeling  of  intense 

cold  seized  me.  An  iceberg  before  m®  could  not  more  have  chilled 
me ; nor  could  the  cold  of  an  iceberg  fame  been  more  purely  physi® 
cal.  I feel  convinced  that  it  was  not  the  cold  caused  by  fear.  As 
I continued  to  gaze,  I thought— but  this  I cannot  say  with  precision 
—that  I distinguished  two  eyes  looking  down  on  me  from  the 
height.  One  moment  I fancied  that  1 distinguished  them  clearly^ 
the  next  they  seemed  gone ; but  still  two  rays  of  a pale-blue  light 
frequently  shot  through  the  darkness^  as  from  the  height  on  which 
I half  believed,  half  doubted,  that  I had  encountered  the  eyes. 

I strove  to  speak— my  voice  utterly  failed  me ; I could  only  think 
to  myself,  “Is  this  fear?  it  is  not  fear l ” I strove  to  rise— in  vain . 
I felt  as  if  weighed  down  by  an  irresistible  force.  Indeed,  my 
impression  was  that  of  an  immense  and  overwhelming  Power 
opposed  to  my  volition ; that  sense  of  utter  inadequacy  to  cope 
with  a force  beyond  man’s,  which  one  may  feel  physically  in  a 
storm  at  sea,  in  a conflagration,  or  when  confronting  some  terrible 
wild  beast,  or  rather,  perhaps,  the  shark  of  the  ocean,  I felt 
morally . Opposed  to  my  will  was  another  will,  as  far  superior  to 
its  strength  as  storm,  fire,  and  shark  are  superior  in  material  force 
to  the  force  of  man. 

And  now,  as  this  impression  grew  on  me— now  came,  at  last, 
horror— horror  to  a degree  that  no  words  can  convey.  Still  I 
retained  pride,  if  not  courage ; and  in  my  own  mind  I said,  “ This 
is  horror,  but  it  is  not  fear ; unless  I fear,  I cannot  be  harmed  ; my 
reason  rejects  this  thing;  it  is  an  illusion — I do  not  fear.”  With  a 
violet  effort  I succeeded  at  last  in  stretching  out  my  hand  toward  the 
weapon  on  the  table;  as  I did  so,  on  the  arm  and  shoulder  I received 
a strange  shock,  and  my  arm  fell  to  my  side  powerless.  And  now, 
to  add  to  my  horror,  the  light  began  slowly  to  wane  from  the  can- 
«j]es___they  were  not,  as  it  were,  extinguished,  hut  their  flame 
seemed  very  gradually  withdrawn;  it  was  the  same  with  the  fire 
— the  light  was  extracted  from  the  fuel ; in  a few  minutes  the 
room  was  in  utter  darkness.  The  dread  that  came  over  me,  to  he 
thus  in  the  dark  with  that  dark  Thing,  whose  power  was  so  intensely 
felt,  brought  a reaction  of  nerve.  In  fact,  terror  had  reached  that 
climax,  that  either  my  senses  must  have  deserted  me,  or  I must 
have  burst  through  the  spell.  I did  burst  through  it.  I found 
'UGsicej  though  the  voice  was  a shriek.  I remember  that  I broke 


THE  h JJNTED  HOUSE  fg 

ibrth  With  words  like  these—' “I  do  not  fear,  my  soul  does  not 
fear;”  and  at  the  same  time  I found  the  strength  to  rise.  Still  in 
that  profound  gloom  I rushed  to  one  of  the  windows— -tore  aside 
the  curtain— flung  open  the  shutters ; my  first  thought  was — LIGHT, 
And  when  I saw  the  moon  high,  clear  and  calm.  I felt  a joy  that 
almost  compensated  for  the  previous  terror.  There,  was  the  moon, 
there,  was  also  the  light  from  the  gas-lamps  in  the  deserted  slum- 
berous street.  I turned  to  look  back  into  the  room ; the  moon 
penetrated  its  shadow  very  palely  and  partially — but  still  there 
was  light.  The  dark  Thing,  whatever  it  might  he,  was  gone— 
except  that  I could  yet  see  a dim  shadow,  which  seemed  the  shadow 
of  that  shade  against  the  opposite  wall. 

My  eye  now  rested  on  the  table,  and  from  under  the  table  (which 
was  without  cloth  or  cover— -an  old  mahogany  round  table)  there 
rose  a hand,  visible  as  far  as  the  wrist.  It  was  a hand,  seemingly, 
as  much  of  flesh  and  blood  as  my  own,  but  the  hand  of  an  aged 
person— lean,  wrinkled,  small  too— a woman’s  hand.  That  hand 
very  softly  closed  on  the  two  letters  that  lay  on  the  table ; hand 
and  letters  both  vanished.  Then  there  came  the  same  three  loud, 
measured  knocks  I had  heard  at  the  bed-head  before  this  extract* 
dinary  drama  had  commenced. 

As  those  sounds  slowly  ceased,  I felt  the  whole  room  vibrate  sens!? 
bly ; and  at  the  far  end  there  rose,  as  from  the  floor,  sparks  or  glob- 
ules like  bubbles  of  light,  many-colored— green,  yellow,  fire-red, 
azure.  Up  and  down,  to  and  fro,  hither,  thither,  as  tiny  Will-o^ 
the-Wisps,  the  sparks  moved,  slow  or  swift,  eacii  at  its  own  caprice. 
A chair  (as  in  the  drawing-room  below)  was  now  advanced  from 
the  wall  without  apparent  agency,  and  placed  at  the  opposite  side 
of  the  table.  Suddenly,  as  forth  from  the  chair,  there  grew  a shape 
—a  woman’s  shape.  It  was  distinct  as  a shape  of  life— ghastly  m 
a shape  of  death.  The  face  was  that  of  youth,  with  a strange, 
mournful  beauty;  the  throat  and  shoulders  were  bare,  the  rest  of 
the  form  in  a loose  robe  of  cloudy  white.  It  began  sleeking  its 
long,  yellow  hair,  which  fell  over  its  shoulders;  its  eyes  were  not 
turned  towards  me,  but  to  the  door ; it  seemed  listening,  watching, 
waiting.  The  shadow  of  the  shade  in  the  background  grew  darter; 
and  again  I thought  I beheld  the  eyes  gleaming  out  from  the  otm* 
mit  of  the  shadow— eyes  fixed  upon  that  shape 
As  if  from  the  door,  though  it  did  not  open,  there  pw 


aft  fk  Jg  HAUNTED  HOUSE. 

another  shape,  equally  distinct,  equally  ghastly— a man’s  shap*>«® 
young  man’s.  It  was  in  the  dress  of  the  last  century  or  rather  in 
a likeness  of  sueh  dress  (for  both  the  male  shape  and  the  female, 
though  defined,  were  evidently  unsubstantial,  impalpable— simu- 
lacra—phantasms)  ; and  there  was  something  incongruous,  grotes- 
que, yet  fearful  in  the  contrast  between  the  elaborate  finery,  the 
courtly  precision  of  that  old-fashioned  garb,  with  its  ruffles,  and 
lace,  and  buckles,  and  the  corpse-like  aspect  and  ghost-like  still- 
ness of  the  flitting  wearer.  Just  as  the  male  shape  approached  the 
female,  the  dark  Shadow  started  from  the  wall,  all  three  for  a 
moment  wrapped  in  darkness.  When  the  pale  light  returned,  the 
two  phantoms  were  as  if  in  the  grasp  of  the  Shadow  that  towered 
between  them,  and  there  was  a blood-stain  on  the  breast  of  the 
female ; and  the  phantom  male  was  leaning  on  its  phantom  sword, 
and  blood  seemed  trickling  fast  from  the  ruffles,  from  the  lace ; and 
the  darkness  of  the  intermediate  Shadow  swallowed  them  up — they 
were  gone.  And  again  the  bubbles  of  light  shot,  and  sailed,  and 
undulated,  growing  thicker  and  thicker  and  more  wildly  confused 
in  their  movements. 

The  closet  door  to  the  right  of  the  fireplace  now  opened,  and  from 
the  aperture  there  came  the  form  <5f  an  aged  woman.  In  her  hand 
she  held  letters— the  very  letters  over  which  I had  seen  the  Hand 
dose;  and  behind  her  I heard  a footstep.  She  turned  round  as  if 
to  listen,  and  then  she  opened  the  letters  and  seemed  to  read : and 
over  her  shoulder  I saw  a livid  face,  the  face  as  of  a man  long 
drowned— bloated,  bleached — seaweed  tangled  in  its  dripping  hair  ; 
and  at  her  feet  lay  a form  as  of  a corpse,  and  beside  the  corpse 
there  cowered  a child,  a miserable,  squalid  child,  with  famine  in 
its  cheeks  and  fear  in  its  eyes.  And  as  I looked  in  the  old  woman’s 
lace,  the  wrinkles  and  lines  vanished,  and  it  became  a face  of 
youth — hard-eyed,  stony,  but  still  youth  ; and  the  Shadow  darted 
forth,  and  darkened  over  these  phantoms  as  it  had  darkened  over 
the  last. 

Nothing  now  was  left  hut  the  Shadow,  and  on  that  my  eyes  were 
intently  fixed,  till  again  eyes  grew  out  of  the  Shadow— malignant, 
serpent  eyes.  And  the  bubbles  of  light  again  rose  and  fell,  and  in 
their  disordered,  irregular,  turbulent  maze,  mingled  with  the  wan 
moonlight.  And  now  from  these  globules  themselves,  as  from  the 
«*— *1  an  egg.  DKSistrons  things  tnuratorat;  the  air  grew  filled 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE. 


i? 

y&bjk  them ; larvae  so  bloodless  and  so  hideous  that  I ca\  in  no  way 
describe  them  except  to  remind  the  reader  of  the  swarming  life 
which  the  solar  microscope  brings  before  the  eyes  in  a drop  of 
water — things  transparent,  supple,  agile,  chasing  each  other,  devour* 
ing  each  other — forms  like  nought  ever  beheld  by  the  naked  eye. 
As  the  shapes  were  without  symmetry,  so  their  movements  were 
without  order.  In  their  very  vagrancies  there  was  no  sport;  they 
came  round  me  and  round,  thicker  and  faster,  and  swifter,  swarm- 
ing over  my  head,  crawling  over  my  right  arm,  which  was  out- 
stretched in  involuntary  command  against  all  evil  beings.  Some- 
times I felt  myself  touched,  but  not  by  them ; invisible  hands 
touched  me.  Once  I felt  the  clutch  as  of  cold,  soft  fingers  at  my 
throat.  I was  still  equally  conscious  that  if  I gave  way  to  fear  I 
should  be  in  bodily  peril ; and  I concentrated  all  my  faculties  in  the 
jingle  focus  of  resisting,  stubborn  will.  And  I turned  my  sight 
from  the  Shadow-— above  all,  from  those  strange,  serpent  eyes— eyes 
that  had  now  become  distinctly  visible.  For  there,  though  in 
nought  else  around  me,  I was  aware  that  there  was  a WILL,  and 
a will  of  intense,  creative,  working  evil,  which  might  crush  down 
my  own. 

The  pale  atmosphere  in  the  room  began  now  to  redden  as  if  in  the 
air  of  some  near  conflagration.  The  larvae  grew  lurid  as  things  that 
live  on  fire.  Again  the  room  vibrated ; again  were  heard  the  three 
measured  knocks ; and  again  all  things  were  swallowed  up  in  the 
darkness  of  the  dark  Shadow,  as  if  out  of  that  darkness  all  had 
come,  into  that  darkness  all  returned. 

As  the  gloom  receded,  the  Shadow  was  wholly  gone.  Slowly  as 
it  had  been  withdrawn,  the  flame  grew  again  into  the  candles  on 
the  table,  again  into  the  feul  in  the  grate. 

The  whole  room  came  once  more  calmly,  healthfully  into  sight. 

The  two  doors  were  still  closed,  the  door  communicating  with  the 
servants’  room  still  locked.  In  the  corner  of  the  wall,  into  which 
he  had  so  convulsively  niched  himself,  lay  the  dog.  I called  to  him 
—no  movement : I approached — the  animal  was  dead ; his  eyes  pro- 
truded \ his  tongue  out  of  his  mouth  ; the  froth  gathered  round  hia 
jaws.  I took  him  in  my  arms ; I brought  him  to  the  fire  ; I felt 
acute  grief  for  the  loss  of  my  poor  favorite — acute  self-reproach ; I 
accused  myself  of  his  death ; I imagined  he  had  died  of  fright.  But 
what  was  my  surprise  on  finding  that  his  neck  was  actually  broken* 

a 


THE  HAUNTED  MOUSE. 


tS 

Had  this  been  done  in  the  dark  ?— must  it  not  have  been  by  a hae& 
human  as  mine?— must  there  not  have  been  a human  agency  all  tbs 
while  in  that  room  ? Good  cause  to  suspect  it.  I cannot  tell.  I 
cannot  do  more  than  state  the  fact  fairly  5 the  reader  may  draw  his 
©wn  inference. 

Another  surprising  circumstance— my  watch  was  restored  to  the 
table  from  which  it  had  been  so  mysteriously  withdrawn  ; but  it 
had  stopped  at  the  very  moment  it  was  so  withdrawn ; nor,  despite 
all  the  skill  of  the  watchmaker,  has  it  ever  gone  since — that  is,  it 
will  go  in  a strange,  erratic  way  for  a few  hours,  and  then  come  to 
a dead  stop — it  is  worthless. 

Nothing  more  chanced  for  the  rest  of  the  night.  Nor,  indeed, 
had  I long  to  wait  before  the  dawn  broke. 

Not  till  it  was  broad  daylight  did  I quit  the  haunted  house.  Before 
I did  so,  I revisited  the  little  blind  room  in  which  my  servant  and 
myself  had  been  for  a time  imprisoned.  I had  a strong  impression 
—for  which  I could  not  account— that  from  that  room  had  origi- 
nated the  mechanism  of  the  phenomena — if  I may  use  the  term— 
which  had  been  experienced  in  my  chamber.  And  though  I entered 
it  now  in  the  clear  day,  with  the  sun  peering  through  the  filmy  win- 
dow, I still  felt,  as  I stood  on  its  floor,  the  creep  of  the  horror  which 
I had  first  there  experienced  the  night  before,  and  which  had  been 
so  aggravated  by  what  had  passed  in  my  own  chamber.  I could 
not,  indeed,  bear  to  stay  more  than  half  a minute  within  those  walls. 
I descended  the  stairs,  and  again  I heard  the  footfall  before  me ; 
and  when  I opened  the  street  door,  I thought  I could  distinguish  a 
very  low  laugh.  I gained  my  own  home,  expecting  to  find  my 
runaway  servant  there.  But  he  had  not  presented  himself;  nor 
did  I hear  more  of  him  for  three  days,  when  I received  a letter  from 
him,  dated  from  ^Liverpool,  to  this  effect  1 

« Honored  Sir,— I humbly  entreat  your  pardon,  though  I can 
scarcely  hope  that  you  will  think  I deserve  it,  unless— which 
Heaven  forbid ! — you  saw  what  I did.  I feel  that  it  will  be  years 
before  I can  recover  myself;  and  as  to  being  fit  for  service,  it  is  out 
of  the  question.  I am  therefore  going  to  my  brother-in-law  at  Mel- 
bourne. The  ship  sails  to-morrow.  Perhaps  the  long  voyage  may 
set  me  up.  I do  nothing  now  but  start  and  tremble,  and  fancy  H 
is  hehtn*  me.  I humbly  beg  you,  hemmed  all,  to  otder  my  clothes, 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE.  *§ 

and  whatever  wages  are  due  to  me,  to  he  seaat  t©  my  mother’s,  at 
Walworth — John  knows  her  address.” 

The  letter  ended  with  additional  apologies,  somewhat  incoherent* 
and  explanatory  details  as  to  effects  that  had  been  under  the  writ 
er’s  charge. 

This  flight  may  perhaps  warrant  a suspicion  that  the  man 
wished  to  go  to  Australia,  and  had  been  somehow  or  other  fraudu- 
lently mixed  up  with  the  events  of  the  night.  I say  nothing  in 
refutation  of  that  conjecture ) rather,  I suggest  it  as  one  that 
would  seem  to  many  persons  the  most  probable  solution  of  improb- 
able occurrences.  My  belief  in  my  own  theory  remained  unshaken. 
I returned  in  the  evening  to  the  house,  to  bring  away  in  a hack- 
cab  the  things  I had  left  there,  with  my  poor  dog’s  body.  In  this 
task  I was  not  disturbed,  nor  did  any  incident  worth  note  befall 
me,  except  that  still,  on  ascending  and  descending  the  stairs,  I 
heard  the  same  footfall  in  advance.  On  leaving  the  house,  I went 

to  Mr.  J — ’s.  He  was  at  home.  I returned  him  the  keys, 

told  him  that  my  curiosity  was  sufficiently  gratified,  and  was  about 
to  relate  quickly  what  had  passed,  when  he  stopped  me,  and  said, 
though  with  much  politeness,  that  he  had  no  longer  any  interest 
in  a mystery  which  none  had  ever  solved. 

I determined  at  least  to  tell  him  of  the  two  letters  I had  read, 
as  well  as  of  the  extraordinary  manner  in  which  they  had  disap- 
peared, and  I then  inquired  if  he  thought  they  had  been  addressed 
to  the  woman  who  had  died  in  the  house,  and  if  there  were  any- 
thing in  her  early  history  which  could  possibly  confirm  the  dark 

suspicions  to  which  the  letters  gave  rise.  Mr.  J— seemed 

startled,  and  after  musing  a few  moments,  answered,  “ I am  but 
little  acquainted  with  the  woman’s  earlier  history,  except,  as  I 
before  told  you,  that  her  family  were  known  to  mine.  But  you 
revive  some  vague  reminiscences  to  her  prejudice.  I will  make 
inquiries,  and  inform  you  of  their  result.  Still,  even  if  we  could 
admit  the  popular  superstition  that  a person  who  had  been  either 
the  perpetrator  or  the  victim  of  dark  crimes  in  life  could  revisit, 
as  a restless  spirit,  the  scene  in  which  those  crimes  had  been  com- 
mitted, I should  observe  that  the  house  was  infested  by  strange 
sights  and  sounds  before  the  old  woman  died-— you  smile— what 
would  you  say?” 


m •**- 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE 


aI  would  say  this,  that  I am  convinced,  if  we  could  get  to  the 
bottom  of  these  mysteries,  we  should  find  a living  human 
agency.  ” 

“What!  you  believe  it  is  all  an  imposture?  for  what  object?” 

“Not  an  imposture  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word.  If  sud- 
denly I were  to  sink  into  a deep  sleep,  from  which  you  could  not 
awake  me,  but  in  that  sleep  could  answer  questions  with  an  accu- 
racy which  I could  not  pretend  to  when  awake — tell  you  what 
money  you  had  in  your  pocket — nay,  describe  your  very  thoughts 
— it  is  not  necessarily  an  imposture,  any  more  than  it  is  necessarily 
supernatural.  I should  be,  unconsciously  to  myself,  under  a 
mesmeric  influence,  conveyed  to  me  from  a distance  by  a human 
being  who  had  acquired  power  over  me  by  previous  rapport” 

“ But  if  a mesmerizer  could  so  affect  another  living  being,  can 
you  suppose  that  a mesmerizer  could  so  affect  inanimate  objects ; 
move  chairs— open  and  shut  doors  ? ” 

“ Or  impress  our  senses  with  the  belief  in  such  effects — we  never 
having  been  en  rapport  with  the  person  acting  on  us  ? No.  What 
is  commonly  called  mesmerism  could  not  do  this ; but  there  may 
be  a power  akin  to  mesmerism,  and  superior  to  it — the  power  that 
in  the  old  days  was  called  Magic.  That  such  a power  may  extend 
to  all  inanimate  objects  of  matter,  I do  not  say ; but  if  so,  it  would 
not  be  against  nature — it  would  be  only  a rare  power  in  nature 
which  might  be  given  to  constitutions  with  certain  peculiarities, 
and  cultivated  by  practice  to  an  extraordinary  degree.  That  such 
a power  might  extend  over  the  dead— that  is,  over  certain  thoughts 
and  memories  that  the  dead  may  still  retain — and  compel,  not  that 
which  ought  properly  to  be  called  the  Soul,  and  which  is  far 
beyond  human  reach,  but  rather  a phantom  of  what  has  been  most 
earth-stained  on  earth,  to  make  itself  apparent  to  our  senses — is  3 
Very  ancient  though  obsolete  theory,  upon  which  I will  hazard  n<j 
©pinion.  But  I do  not  conceive  the  power  would  be  supernatural. 
Let  me  illustrate  what  I mean  from  an  experiment  which  Para^ 
eelsus  describes  as  not  difficult,  and  which  the  author  of  th#. 
Curiosities  of  Literature  cites  as  credible  : — A flower  perishes  ; yoi 
burn  it.  Whatever  were  the  elements  of  that  flower  while  it  live<^ 
are  gone,  dispersed,  you  know  not  whither;  you  can  never  discovei 
nor  re-colleet  them.  But  you  can,  by  chemistry,  out  of  the  burnA 
dust  of  that  flower,  raise  a spectrum  of  the  flower,  just  as  i> 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE 


St 


in  Wk,  It  may  be  the  same  with  the  human  MS ng*  The 
soul  has  as  much  escaped  you  as  the  essence  or  elements  of  the 
flower.  Still  you  may  make  a spectrum  of  it.  And  this  phantom* 
though  in  the  popular  superstition  it  is  held  to  be  the  soul  of  the 
departed,  must  not  be  confounded  with  the  true  soul ; it  if  but  the 
image  of  the  dead  form.  Hence,  like  the  best-attested  srories  of 
ghosts  or  spirits,  the  thing  that  most  strikes  us  is  the  absence  of 
what  we  held  to  be  soul ; that  is,  of  superior  emancipated  intelli- 
gence. These  apparitions  come  for  little  or  no  object— they  seldom 
speak  when  they  do  come  5 if  they  speak,  they  utter  no  idea  above 
those  of  an  ordinary  person  on  earth.  American  spirit-seers  have 
published  volumes  of  communications  in  prose  and  verse,  which 
they  assert  to  be  given  in  the  names  of  the  most  illustrious  dead 
—Shakespeare,  Bacon — heaven  knows  whom.  Those  communica- 
tions, taking  the  best,  are  certainly  not  a whit  of  higher  than 
would  be  communications  from  living  persons  of  Mr  talent  and 
education;  they  are  wondrously  inferior  to  what  Bacon,  Shak- 
espeare, and  Plato  said  and  wrote  when  on  earth.  Nor,  what  is 
more  noticeable,  do  they  ever  contain  an  idea  that  was  not  on  the 
earth  before.  Wonderful,  therefore,  as  such  phenomena  may  be 
(granting  them  to  be  truthful),  I see  much  that  philosophy  may 
question,  nothing  that  it  is  incumbent  on  philosophy  to  deny— 
viz.,  nothing  supernatural.  They  are  but  ideas  conveyed  somehow 
or  other  (we  have  not  yet  discovered  the  means)  from  one  mortal 
brain  to  another.  Whether,  in  so  doing,  tables  walk  of  their  own 
accord,  or  flend-like  shapes  appear  in  a magic  circle,  or  body  less 
bands  rise  aad  remove  material  objects,  or  a Thing  of  Darkness, 
such  as  presented  itself  to  me,  freeze  our  blood — still  I am  per- 
suaded that  these  are  but  agencies  conveyed,  as  by  electric  wires, 
to  my  own  brain  from  the  brain  of  another.  In  some  constitutions 
there  is  a natural  chemistry,  and  those  constitutions  may  produce 
chemic  wonders— in  others  a natural  fluid,  call  it  electricity,  and 
these  may  produce  electric  wonders.  But  the  wonders  differ  from 
Normal  Science  in  this— -they  are  alike  objectless,  purposeless, 
puerile,  frivolous.  They  lead  on  to  no  grand  results ; and  there- 
fore the  world  does  not  heed,  and  true  sages  have  not  cultivated 
them.  But  sure  I am,  that  of  all  I saw  or  heard,  a man,  human  as 
layself,  was  the  remote  originator ; and  I believe  unconsciously  to 
himself  as  to  the  exact  effects  produced,  lor  this  reason : no  two 


22 


mS  HAUNTED  HOUSE 


persons,  you  say,  have  ever  told  you  that  they  experienced  exactly 
the  same  thing.  Well,  observe,  no  two  persons  ever  experience 
exactly  the  same  dream*  If  this  were  an  ordinary  imposture,  the 
machinery  would  be  arranged  for  results  that  would  but  little 
vary ; if  it  were  a supernatural  agency  permitted  by  the  Almighty, 
it  would  surely  be  for  some  definite  end.  These  phenomena  belong 
to  neither  class;  my  persuasion  is,  that  they  originate  in  some 
brain  now  far  distant ; that  that  brain  bad  no  distinct  volition  in 
anything  that  occurred;  that  what  does  occur  reflects  but  its 
devious,  motley,  ever-shifting,  half-formed  thoughts;  in  short,  that 
it  has  been  but  the  dreams  of  such  a brain  put  into  action  and 
invested  with  a semi-substance.  That  this  brain  is  of  immense 
power,  that  it  can  set  matter  into  movement,  that  it  is  malignant 
destructive,  I believe;  some  material  force  must  have  killed 
my  dog;  the  same  force  might,  for  aught  I know,  have  sufficed  to 
kill  myself,  had  I been  as  subjugated  by  terror  as  that  dog— had 
my  intellect  or  my  spirit  given  me  no  countervailing  resistance  in 
my  will.** 

u It  killed  your  dog!  that  is  fearful ! indeed  it  is  strange  that  no 
animal  can  be  induced  to  stay  in  that  bouse ; not  even  a cat.  Bate 
and  mice  are  never  found  in  it.** 

“ The  instincts  of  the  brute  creation  detect  influences  deadly  to 
tbeir  existence.  Man’s  reason  has  a sense  less  subtle,  because  it  has 
a resisting  power  more  supreme.  But  enough ; do  you  comprehend 
my  theory  ? * 

u Yes,  though  imperfectly— and  I except  my  crotchet  (pardon  the 
word),  however  odd,  rather  than  embrace  at  once  the  notions  of 
ghosts  and  hobgoblins  we  imbibed  in  our  nurseries.  Still,  to  my 
unfortunate  house  the  evil  is  the  same.  What  on  earthy  can  I de 
with  the  house?” 

“I  will  tell  you  what  I would  do.  I am  convinced  from  my  own 
internal  feelings  that  the  small  unfurnished  room  at  right  angles  to 
the  door  of  the  bedroom  which  I occupied,  forms  a starting-point 
or  receptacle  for  the  influences  which  haunt  the  house;  and  I 
strongly  advise  you  to  have  the  walls  opened,  the  floor  removed— 
nay,  the  whole  room  pulled  down.  I observe  that  it  is  detached 
from  the  body  of  the  house,  built  over  the  small  hack -yard,  and 
could  be  removed  without  injury  to  the  rest  of  the  building.” 
ym  think,  if  I did  that——*® 


im  mumrm  mum* 


n 

< *Yoca  wojiM  mt  off  tlse  telegraph  wires*  Try  ft  la mso per. 
iuaded  that  I am  right,  that  I will  pay  half  the  expense  If  ymi 
Will  allow  me  to  direct  the  operations.” 

“ Nay,  I am  well  able  to  afford  the  cost  j for  the  rest,  allow  me  to 
Write  to  you.” 

About  ten  days  afterward  I received  a letter  from  Mr.  J— — — f 
telling  me  that  he  had  visited  the  house  since  I had  seen  him ; that 
he  had  found  the  two  letters  I had  described,  replaced  is  the  drawer 
from  which  I had  taken  them ; that  he  had  read  them  with  mis- 
givings like  my  own;  that  he  had  instituted  a cautious  inquiry 
about  the  woman  to  whom  I rightly  conjectured  they  had  been 
written.  It  seemed  that  thirty-six  years  ago  (a  year  before  the  date 
of  the  letters)  she  had  married,  against  the  wish  of  her  relations,  an 
American  of  very  suspicious  character;  in  feet,  he  was  generally 
believed  to  have  been  a pirate.  She  herself  was  the  daughter  of 
very  respectable  tradespeople,  and  had  served  in  the  capacity  of  a 
nursery  governness  before  her  marriage.  She  had  a brother,  a wid- 
ower, who  was  considered  wealthy,  and  who  had  one  child  of  about 
six  years  old.  A month  after  the  marriage,  the  body  of  this  brother 
was  found  in  the  Thames,  near  London  Bridge ; there  seemed  some 
marks  of  violence  about  his  throat,  but  they  were  not  deemed  suf- 
ficient to  warrant  the  inquest  in  any  other  verdict  than  that  ©f 
“found  drowned.” 

The  American  and  his  wife  took  charge  of  the  little  hoy,  the 
deceased  brother  having  by  his  will  left,  his  sister  guardian  of  his 
only  child— -and  in  event  of  the  child’s  death,  the  sister  inherited. 
The  child  died  about  six  months  afterward — it  was  supposed  to  have 
been  neglected  and  ill-treated.  The  neighbors  deposed  to  have 
heard  it  shriek  at  night.  The  surgeon  who  had  examined  it  after 
death,  said  that  it  was  emaciated  as  if  from  the  want  of  nourish- 
ment, and  the  body  was  covered  with  livid  bruises.  It  seemed  that 
one  winter  night  the  child  had  sought  to  escape — crept  out  into  the 
back-yarn — tried  to  scale  the  wall — fallen  back  exhausted,  and  been 
found  at  morning  on  the  stones  in  a dying  state.  But  though  there 
was  some  evidence  of  cruelty,  there  was  none  of  murder : and  the 
aunt  and  her  husband  had  sought  to  palliate  cruelty  by  alleging  the 
exceeding  stubbornness  and  perversity  of  the  child,  who  was  declared 
to  be  half-witted.  Be  that  as  it  may,  at  the  orphan’s  death  the  aunt 
tefemted  ber  broJber’3  fortune,  left**  t&e  first  wedded  year  urea 


u 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE 

out,  ike  American  had  quitted  England  abruptly,  and  never  returned 
to  it.  He  obtained  a cruising  vessel,  which  was  lost  in  the  Atlan- 
tic two  years  afterwards.  The  widow  was  left  in  affluence ; but 
reverses  of  various  kinds  had  befallen  her ; a bank  broke — an  invest- 
ment failed— she  went  into  a small  business  and  became  insolvent 
—then  she  entered  into  service,  sinking  lower  and  lower,  from  house- 
keeper down  to  maid-of-all-work — never  long  retaining  a place, 
though  nothing  decided  against  her  character  was  ever  alleged* 
She  was  considered  sober,  honest,  and  peculiarly  quiet  in  her  ways; 
still  nothing  prospered  with  her.  And  so  she  had  dropped  into  the 
work-house,  from  which  Mr.  J— — - had  taken  her,  to  be  placed 
in  charge  of  the  very  house  which  she  had  rented  as  mistress  in  the 
first  year  of  her  wedded  life. 

Mr.  J— — - added  that  he  had  passed  an  hour  alone  in  the  unfur- 
nished room  which  I had  urged  him  to  destroy,  and  that  his  impres- 
sions of  dread  while  there  were  so  great,  though  he  had  neither 
heard  nor  seen  anything,  that  he  was  eager  to  have  the  walls  hared 
and  the  doors  removed  as  I had  suggested.  He  had  engaged  per* 
sons  for  the  work,  and  would  commence  any  day  I would  name. 

The  day  was  accordingly  fixed.  I repaired  to  the  haunted  house 
went  into  the  blind,  dreary  room,  took  up  the  skirting,  and 
then  the  floors.  Under  the  rafters,  covered  with  rubbish,  was  found 
a trap  door,  quite  large  enough  to  admit  a man.  It  was  closely 
nailed  down,  with  clamps  and  rivets  of  iron.  On  removing  these 
we  descended  into  a room  below,  the  existence  of  which  had  never 
been  suspected.  In  this  room  there  had  been  a window  and  a flue, 
but  they  had  been  bricked  over,  evidently  for  many  years.  By  the 
help  of  candles  we  examined  this  place  ; it  still  retained  some 
mouldering  furniture— three  chairs,  an  oak  settle,  a table — all  of  the 
fashion  of  about  eighty  years  ago.  There  was  a chest  of  drawers 
against  the  wall,  in  which  we  found,  half-rotted  away,  old-fashioned 
articles  of  a man’s  dress,  such  as  might  have  been  worn  eighty  or  a 
hundred  years  ago  by  a gentleman  of  some  rank — costly  steel  buck- 
les and  buttons,  like  those  yet  worn  in  court-dresses — a handsome 
court-sword — in  a waist-coat  which  had  once  been  rich  with  gold- 
lace,  but  which  was  now  blackened  and  foul  with  damp,  we  found 
five  guineas,  a few  silver  coins,  and  an  ivory  ticket,  probably  for 
Mwne  place  of  entertainment  long  since  passed  away.  But  our  maitv 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE.  3$ 

discovery  was  in  a kind  of  iron  safe  fixed  to  the  wall,  the  lock  oi 
which  it  cost  ns  much  trouble  to  get  picked. 

In  this  safe  were  three  shelves,  and  two  small  drawers.  Ranged 
on  the  shelves  were  several  small  bottles  of  crystal  hermetically 
stopped.  They  contained  colorless  volatile  essences,  of  the  nature 
of  which  I shall  only  say  that  they  were  not  poisons— phosphor  and 
ammonia  entered  into  some  of  them.  There  were  also  some  very 
curious  glass  tubes,  and  a small  pointed  rod  of  iron,  with  a large  lump 
of  rock-crystal,  and  another  of  amber— also  a loadstone  of  great 
power. 

In  one  of  the  drawers  we  found  a miniature  portrait  set  in  gold, 
and  retaining  the  freshness  of  its  colors  mDst  remarkably,  consider- 
ing the  length  of  time  it  had  probably  been  there.  The  portrait 
was  that  of  a man  who  might  he  somewhat  advanced  in  middle  life, 
perhaps  forty-seven  or  forty-eight. 

It  was  a remarkable  face — a most  impressive  face.  If  you  could 
fancy  some  mighty  serpent  transformed  into  man,  preserving  in  the 
human  lineaments  the  old  serpent  type,  you  would  have  a better 
idea  of  that  countenance  than  long  descriptions  can  convey ; the 
width  and  flatness  of  frontal — the  tapering  elegance  of  contour 
disguising  the  strength  of  the  deadly  jaw — the  long,  large,  terrible 
eye,  glittering  and  green  as  the  emerald— and  withal  a certain  ruth- 
less calm,  as  if  from  the  consciousness  of  an  immense  power. 

Mechanically  I turned  round  the  miniature  to  examine  the  back 
of  it,  and  on  the  back  was  engraved  a pentacle ; in  the  middle  of 
the  pentacle  a ladder,  and  the  third  step  of  the  ladder  was  formed 
by  the  date  of  1765.  Examining  still  more  minutely,  I detected  a 
spring;  this,  on  being  pressed,  opened  the  back  of  the  miniatur® 
as  a lid.  Within-side  the  lid  was  engraved,  “Mariana,  to  thee— 

Be  faithful  in  life  and  in  death  to Here  follows  a name 

that  I will  not  mention,  but  it  was  not  unfamiliar  to  me.  I had 
heard  it  spoken  of  by  old  men  in  my  childhood  as  the  name  borne 
by  a dazzling  charlatan  who  had  made  a great  sensation  in  London 
for  a year  or  so,  and  had  fled  the  country  on  the  charge  of  a double 
murder  within  his  own  house — that  of  his  mistress  and  his  rival. 
1 said  nothing  of  this  to  Mr.  J— — — , to  whom  reluctantly,  I 
resigned  the  miniature. 

We  bad  found  no  difficulty  in  opening  the  first  drawer  within 
the  iron  safe ; we  sound  great  difficulty  in  opening  the  second  £ It 


m 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE 


not  locked,  but  it  resisted  all  efforts,  till  we  inserted  in  the 
chinks  the  edge  of  a chisel.  When  we  had  thus  drawn  it  forth, 
we  found  a very  singular  apparatus  in  the  nicest  order.  Upon  a 
small,  thin  book,  or  rather  tablet,  was  placed  a saucer  of  crystal ; 
this  saucer  was  filled  with  a clear  liquid — on  that  liquid  floated  a 
kind  of  compass,  with  a needle  shifting  rapidly  round  5 but  instead 
of  the  usual  points  of  a compass  were  seven  strange  characters,  not 
very  unlike  those  used  by  astrologers  to  denote  the  planets.  A 
peculiar,  but  not  strong  nor  displeasing  odor,  came  from  this  drawer, 
which  was  lined  with  a wood  that  we  afterwards  discovered  to  be 
hazel.  Whatever  the  cause  of  this  odor,  it  produced  a material 
effect  on  the  nerves.  We  all  felt  it,  even  the  two  workmen  who 
were  in  the  room — a creeping,  tingling  sensation  from  the  tip  of 
the  fingers  to  the  roots  of  the  hair.  Impatient  to  examine  the  tab- 
let I removed  the  saucer.  As  I did  so  the  needle  of  the  compass 
went  round  and  round  with  exceeding  swiftness,  and  I felt  a shock 
that  ran  through  my  whole  frame,  so  that  I dropped  the  saucer  on 
the  floor.  The  liquid  was  spilt — the  saucer  was  broken— the  com- 
pass rolled  to  the  other  end  of  the  room— and  at  that  instant  the 
walls  shook  to  and  fro,  as  if  a giant  had  swayed  and  rocked  them. 

The  two  workmen  were  so  frightened  that  they  ran  up  the  ladder 
by  which  they  had  descended  from  the  trap-door;  but  seeing  that  ' 
nothing  more  happened,  they  were  easily  induced  to  return. 

Meanwhile  I had  opened  the  tablet ; it  was  bound  in  plain  red 
leather,  with  a silver  clasp;  it  contained  but  one  sheet  of  thick 
vellum,  and  on  that  sheet  were  inscribed,  within  a double  pemtac-le, 
words  in  old  monkish  Latin,  which  are  literally  to  be  translated 
thus:— “On  all  that  it  can  reach  within  these  walls— sentient  or 
inanimate,  living  or  dead— as  moves  the  needle,  so  work  my  will! 
Accursed  be  the  house,  and  restless  be  the  dwellers  therein. n 

We  found  no  more.  Mr.  J- —burnt  the  tablet  and  its  ana- 

thema. He  razed  to  the  foundations  the  part  of  the  building  con- 
taining the  secret  room  with  the  chamber  over  it.  He  had  then 
the  courage  to  inhabit  the  house  himself  for  a month,  and  a 
quieter,  better-conditioned  bouse  could  not  be  found  in  all  London. 
Subsequently  he  let  it  to  advantage,  and  his  tenant  has  made  no 


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